


Angels Of Death

by GingerHoran



Category: One Direction
Genre: Abusive Father, Alcoholism, Council Estate, Druggie!Louis, Drugs, F/M, Gangs, M/M, Manic - Freeform, Protective!Josh, punk!niall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:50:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerHoran/pseuds/GingerHoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world would know his story, he would do whatever he could do in his physical means so his life story could be told, he suddenly felt a large but bearable responsibility placed on his shoulders, but he would fulfil Harry’s last wish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels Of Death

Living in London is hard, it’s a struggle to pay the rent for your apartment when you earn a pittance, and are suffering from unimaginable writer’s block that doesn’t seem to fade, no matter how hard you look for inspiration in the brightly lit city. Sitting in the same run down café, whose owner greets you with a tight lipped smile once you walk through the door, that bell jingling as you do so. Fingers tap away on your cheap laptop, trying to search through your clouded mind for any sense of creativity that once lay there, bursting through every so often as you were a child, those daydreams taking you far away from the boringness of real life.

Liam doesn’t regret it though; he was brought up in a working class catholic household, his parents controlling his every movement, constantly being compared to his elder and more prude siblings. After being chastised that his future career options were not good enough, at 18, Liam moved from the claustrophobic place of his birth and into London, determined to follow his dreams of fulfilling a career as a novelist.

Working long hours for a local paper, sending in clipped and rather disappointing musings that didn’t at all portray Liam’s real writing ability, his dreams started to hollow. But while sitting in that same café, that same lukewarm polystyrene cup of black coffee sat upon the cheap wooden table, someone shines a light into Liam’s dark abyss; Harry.

Harry, after a rather short introduction, tells Liam quite simply, that he wanted him to write his story. Liam’s curious as to why the boy is so eager, but complies with his wishes anyway, it’s only right, since he sees the way his eyes are clouded over with unimaginable pain, and in a sadistic sort of way he wants to know why.

They meet again, and Harry tells his story, it’s of brotherly love, a harsh and climatic tragedy, their runaway from a drunken abuser and hate turned to an unbreakable friendship which ends in sudden death. Harry talks with this eloquence, which goes against the lanky and sluggish appearance of the boy on the outside, the perfect oxymoron. Liam notes how he does not stutter over his words as he mentions his best friend, his hands clasping round themselves as his eyes wander to stare through the murky atmosphere into the pitch black sky, out of respect he believes.

Liam imagines him staring into the starry sky, whispering these short drabbles to the stars, smiling childishly as though he hears a response, those dimples making a dash appearance , before exiting into a frown as the teen realises he’s alone in the world . Harry refuses Liam’s pity, and when his story is finished and typed up onto a fresh document, he’s gone out into the world. And Liam wonders why he even wrote it down, because it will never be the same without those haunting jade eyes being pictured alongside the scripture.

The story is never published, Liam would never have the nerve, he’s not the author and he often threatens to delete the writing, with the excuse of plagiarism. But that’s not the case, in reality, he still dreams of the boy who told that story, his heroism clear and his emotions high, those dark and terror-filled eyes haunting him every night.

There is a letter addressed to him one morning, and he rips it open expecting another bill that he would forget about, tossing it thoughtlessly into the trash. It’s handwritten, his first name written in an unfamiliar scrawl upon the brown paper envelope, inquisitive as usual, he opens it.

**_Dear Liam,_ **

**_As you probably did not expect, it’s Harry._ **

**_This letter is simple and is the last of my communications._ **

**_My story will be published, and I expect the authors name to be yours, as fiction no one should believe anything did ever in reality occur, but of course you and I know they did._ **

**_To end my good friend is a quote:_ **

**_My heart once beat with a thrumming of pain_ **

**_But that’s now ended, nothing remains_ **

**_Not even my angel of death._ **

**_Yours Sincerely,_ **

**_Harry._ **

It hit Liam like a whirlwind, Harry was gone, just like that, and the boy with the troubled eyes was now looking down at him from the clouds, no longer lonely, and that comforted Liam for a strange reason, as he was probably happiest whilst dead. For the short period of time that Liam knew Harry, he had learnt so much from the young boy, and had experienced such emotional pain through his twisted and sorrowed words.

The world would know his story, he would do whatever he could do in his physical means so his life story could be told, he suddenly felt a large but bearable responsibility placed on his shoulders, but he would fulfil Harry’s last wish.

This is Harry’s story.

_Death is a dark and inescapable abyss, and I pity those who it frightens, for people who have suffered like me, crave it. I crave it like a homeless man yearns for shelter from the bitter cold, like a child craves friendship as they wander into the big, wide world. Of course everyone dies, eventually, but I’d like to die with pain, feel those scrawny and sharp fingers scratch down my pale flesh, leaving scars across my body. Large hands tightening around my throat, leaving crescents where the perpetrators fingers are, squeezing and throttling the air from my lungs, black dots entering my vision. It’s merciless and I realise this, but I dream of it every night, and I can’t wait because I deserve it. Hell was made for me, the devil was brought up through the flames for me, and he was created out of pure evil to bathe me in unpitying torture. Why live, when your life isn’t worth living, this is my punishment for his death. –Harry_

The way that hand smacked down with unrelenting force against the wooden table, quietened the class, some looked visibly shocked that a teacher would discipline with such violence, but it wasn’t strange for me. Harry sat up straighter in the chair, out of common knowledge, because by slouching you are only revealing your weakness of being scared, you should never be frightened by your enemy.

Mr Young was a fairly harsh teacher, and many of Harry’s fellow students had grown to hate the man, but Harry could not .Harry had already met a man who had taken up such a dark role in his life, at the tender age of 15 when his life was just beginning, Harry’s heart had been tainted with pain inconceivable to others his own age.

The bell rang, and Harry stayed behind to finish his notes in his textbook, while other students rushed quickly from the classroom, completely ignoring Mr Young trying to persuade to them the importance of the homework for that evening, but he sighed shaking his head knowing that they were disregarding him, and sorted through his notes.

Harry silently, packed his shoulder bag, knowing he had now run through five minutes into his lunch, but it didn’t really matter nobody would want to sit with him in the lunch room anyway. Mr Young was shocked to see that the young student was still in the classroom, the curly-haired boy was relatively discreet during his classes, but he produced remarkable work which did often frighten the English teacher with its detail.

“Sorry Sir,” he muttered quietly, lithely passing the desks and placing his book on the teacher’s desk with a curt, simple nod of his head. Mr Young bemusedly watched the boy walk out of the classroom, he had taught his elder brother Zayn that same year, who was a stark opposite in personality but his English skills mirrored that of Stephen King in its detail and witty quotes. Mr Young knew the boy had great intelligence and skill in this area, and had been the one to persuade him to pursue them for his A-Levels, Zayn quiet like his brother, was far more troublesome in lessons tending to easily be distracted and leap forth from the windows when his nicotine addiction became too suffocating.

Having been rebuked for his actions, he improved somewhat but always kept a slightly sullen look about himself which did frighten the young graduate as to why the two Malik children were so outlandish and kept to themselves, lost in their own thoughts most of the time.

Harry softly treaded through the grassy mounds that surrounded the English department of St Thompson High School, kicking the green strands with his worn converse; his thoughts ran to his father who was probably downing a drink or two at the local bar. The excuses of stress and loneliness were spat through slurred conversations every night, as he lay on their couch beer bottles surrounding his scruffy state, his mind clouded over with drunkenness.

 Harry had confused himself more than once whenever he tried to come to the conclusion of pity, it was impossible to feel any sadness towards the man who had laid countless dark bruises upon his youngest son, alongside shouts of obscenities to conclude why he did not belong on this earth, it made him feel worthless, absolutely worthless.

 Zayn was less frightened of the unreliable man and often had to contain his anger, and stop himself from launching at the man every time Harry was insulted; it was a dreadful feeling to be afraid of your own father but they were.

Harry exited the school grounds, careful to dodge any questioning looks from passer-by’s as he walked through town, his trainers kicking about chip trays and empty coke cans playfully, as he tried to focus his thoughts on anything other than his family. Smelling the familiar stale scent of cigarette smoke, the bitterness filtering through his nostrils causing them to scrunch up in acquainted disgust, he noticed two teenage boys a little older than himself crouched down outside McDonalds. Feeling slightly intimidated by the smaller boy on the right, his blond hair tipped with a deep purple colour, his smirk was cocky but his eyes were blue, and playfully dancing with small crackles of gold and silver.

Harry was easily infatuated with simple things in life, and blamed it on the fact that he had never experienced any real emotion except the deep connection he felt towards his brother which mostly composed of being a barrier between himself and his father, a protector almost. These cerulean blue eyes were a new object of Harry’s apparent fascination, and he allowed himself to take in their colour and tried to read any emotion that lay between long eyelashes which reflected tremendously with the early setting sun. 

Harry couldn’t help but stare until the blond boy and his friend, who was only slightly taller with short brown hair and dark brown eyes stared Harry down crudely darkening every few seconds until a subconscious bubble burst inside Harry, and he was knocked to the hard concrete. Breath was knocked from his lungs instantly, he didn’t try to recover he just focused on the blossoming colours behind his eyelids dancing seductively; drawing dreams out of that nothingness that had consumed his thoughts lately.

Blood. Blood poured from his forehead but no wincing ensued only laughter, pure and incomplete hysteria bubbled forth from his lips and his fingers dipped into the open wound but only as the warm liquid seeped onto his grubby fingers did he notice two bright blue eyes before him.

“Hey buddy, y’alright?” The boy whispered, clicking his tongue piercing against his pearly white teeth absentmindedly as he eyed the bloody boy on the floor. Harry was too dizzy to respond straight away, his eyesight was fuzzy and disorientated, but he had been in this state enough times to know not too stand up too quickly, and find something unmoving to make eye contact with .

“Yeah,” he answered the blue eyed boy weakly, his eyes locking onto the black stretcher in his ear which contrasted beautifully with his pale skin, there was also a sapphire jewel in his right ear which sparkled and caught the light, swirling Harry into a blur with the way it twinkled in the sunset.

With a dazed smile on his face  Niall laughed internally at how completely perceptual he looked, with the tip of his tongue lapping at his cracked lips and his forest green eyes staring with a hunger at the piercing on Niall’s lips , which he played with shyly , a cocky smirk playing upon his face .

“D’ya need to go to the hospital?” he asked teasingly , his eyebrows raised in questioning , Harry confused after his head injury gave the blond boy a blinding dimply smile, and Niall sniggered internally shaking his head in despair .

Harry lolled his head aside on the concrete, watching smoke dissipate into the air as it effervesced over a chimney in the distance, its silkiness harming the bright sunset in a striking way. Niall gazed at the boy intriguingly; his curly hair flopped over his forehead, an engrossed look on his face as he stared into space. _What was he going to do with him?_

Eventually after the dizziness faded, and the cloud which created a mania over his mind disappeared, Harry came to consciousness as if he had been in a dream-like state this whole time. He sat up slowly, admiring the boy that sat beside him on the pavement with caution, his face turned to look at him and he was reminded of the rapture with his bright, blue gaze.

The boy burst into laughter, a chime of bells to Harry’s ear, leaving them ringing in bliss, the sound seeming to echo repeatedly in the cave of Harry’s heart. The sound was silenced, but a cocky simper remained on his face, his eyes playful in interest as he stared over at Harry who was helping himself into an upright position, slightly unsteadily so that Niall had to grip his arm firmly to steady him.

“Sure you’re alright?” he asks again, his fingers gripping marginally tighter on the boys forearm as if he were to crumble against the concrete once again , his body in a heap , the dried blood becoming sticky and uncomfortable as it dripped down towards his broad shoulders.

“Yeah” Harry muttered, as he straightened his legs, feeling to need to tie the shoelace of his converse which was hanging astray amongst the litter of chip trays, and leaking sprite cans. Niall nodded simply, not wanting to pressure the boy, as he flicked his tongue piercing against his lip ring, listening to the click click click it ensued. Harry heeded the noise, thinking that the rock n roller boy must have been part of a groupie of some sort, his whole atmosphere screamed different but he didn’t seem very self-conscious, more than likely he was battling his own inner-demons while his confident and slightly conceited side showed.

“Happens all the time” he whispered shifting random stones with the toes of his shoes flicking them into the grid, the clinking of metal gradually slowed down. It was funny that they had started a conversation, but no greetings between the two had yet resulted and there was an awkward air that they both breathed.

“You get punched all the time?” Niall asked , that grin seemingly attached in permanence to his lips grew wider, so Harry had a clear view towards the round silver ball on his pinkish tongue. His head shook quickly, regretting immediately his recent words, although this boy with the pale face and purple dip dye was very captivating, Harry was quite a secretive person and very rarely revealed himself to anyone.

“Well d’ya?” Niall pressed on, rifling through his front pocket to pull out a crumpled silk cut , he peered over at Harry who was playing a thumb war of sorts with two ragged rocks, a purple lighter was then pulled from his leather jacket pocket with the signature _Deathly_ written across in a cursive black . Cupping around the cigarette , Niall cursed as he tried several times to light the fag, before sighing in relief when he managed, the nicotine burn through his chest becoming relieved as he breathed in the deadly smoke.

Harry watched in enthrallment as the pale boy, his purple tipped hair now hanging raggedly across his forehead, puckered his red lips around the cigarette and breathed in, letting the smoke out in loops grinning over at the curly haired boy with smugness as he did so, even with his piercings, thick eyeliner and supposedly rocky appearance he had a very childish alter-ego. He motioned again towards the cut on Harry’s temple with a jut of his chin, wanting an explanation to his question, not willing to let the subject matter go, that sneer clogged in his throat ready to reveal itself once Harry had answered.

“Yeah,” Harry choked out, again looking towards his feet as a distraction from the imminent demand that was to be thrust towards him by this peculiar boy, instead the boy chuckled darkly stubbing his cigarette against the concrete and flicking it into the road, his fingers picking at his jeans in thought.

“Never really thought you’d be the one to get into fights,” he said, he then looked over at Harry and gently picked a stray curl from the sticky wound, this made Harry wince slightly as the dull pain from the impact to a hard surface was making an appearance.

“I’m Niall, by the way” he greeted, his hand darting out to shake Harry’s larger one, Niall’s pale palm sat daintily between Harry’s, his hands calloused and cracked from years of guitar playing but he was offered a wary smile in return, green eyes lightening into Jade momentarily as they studied the intertwined hands; the protruding knuckles under soft, pale flesh almost like an artist revising its latest muse and mentally drawing each detail with the swift of lead on crisp paper.

“Harry,” he replied minutes later, as their hands released from each other, slightly sweaty from their long embrace. Green eyes met blue fleetingly, before they both blinked back towards the grimy footpath they were sat upon, that same awkwardness was lay over them like a blanket as none of them seemed to say a word, only listening to each other’s breathing lost swiftly in the breezy climate.

“So?” Harry began in a whisper, losing his train of thought almost immediately after he had begun, Niall turned to face him his cheeks pinking due to the draft. To break the almost concrete barrier of miscommunication between the two boys, a phone buzzed, and Niall heaved a sigh of relief that he could possibly return to regular communiqué with a normal person. Insolence wasn’t part of his original personality, and his family had come to the conclusion that he had changed for the worse over the past few years and that the boy they had brought up was not going to return.

During high school his whole demeanour started to change, as he gradually grew to have conflicts with the wrong types of people, his parents couldn’t control him anymore and his elder brother Greg, well he just ignored everything and moved abroad. After his parents’ divorce he met Louis at a skate park where they shared a few hits, and lowly chants of how shit their childhoods had been, there grew a debatable friendship which leaded to Josh.

Josh had been the rock Niall had leant on the past few years; he purposefully burnt through his parents’ wages on experimental street drugs, or the usual marijuana which was blown away at house parties on the edge of town, or sold to failing further-maths students at University who just needed to get away from it all. Josh had been the one to save Niall from the dodgiest of dealings, hiding him away in a dingy car mechanics unit in Newcastle when the police had tracked the gang’s activities too far. This even included family complications, which would normally leave Niall snorting at the emptiness of his parents’ intimidations; but when they threatened to involve Greg a first degree graduate of criminal law working for the MI5, he ran and Josh was there to pick up the pieces.

Guffawing at the drunken description of Louis, and his mysterious new buddy in the text that he had just received from Josh, he turned to Harry and offered him the promise of a safe journey home, well he couldn’t actually guarantee anyone’s safety with a reputation as extensive as the stars in the sky but he tried.

“No,” Harry replied bluntly, he didn’t mean to sound harsh, but he also didn’t intentionally want to see the dirty scowl that crossed Niall’s face at his reply to a nice gesture. Niall laughed that contemptuous laugh once again, mocking Harry’s refusal outright as he shuffled to his feet, flicking that stubbed fag in the direction of Harry and walking away.

“Fuck!” Harry cursed to himself when the boy was out of sight, harshly biting against his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood which is what he wanted. Shook up, after the full force blow from Niall’s friend, how long had he passed out for, because when he regained some sort of consciousness he had disappeared.

Harry stood up, still ignoring his untied shoelaces which dragged across the gravelly town square as he walked to nowhere.

He could be missing for a decade, but the return would be same, he’d still be the same lost boy in that lonely world, people would be screaming around him but he would hear silence, love may burn through his heart like molten lava but in the end it would be ice cold.

 Hands stuffed into his trouser pocket, his tie loosened around his collar, his slothful appearance would be clear to anyone as a regular teenage boy out roaming town in the early evening hours , but truthfully Harry saw this as protecting himself , he wasn’t causing any trouble. Mr Malik, his father, would probably be in a drunken state driving himself home recklessly, or passed out a bar somewhere slurring expletives at any barman who would try to call him a cab, or honestly tell him that enough was enough.

Harry’s phone, as per usual whenever he was out on a school day, rang and Harry rolled his eyes as he answered the vibrating handset, his brothers voice countered with its usual greeting and the loud bass of music was clear in the background.

“Where are you?” Zayn asked, scratching at his scalp as random indecently dressed girls danced around him, their eyes raking up his body but he ignored their glazed over looks, waiting for his brother to reply.

“Walking to the rec, he’s probably home already,” Harry responded, balancing on the pavement , and placing his old blackberry between his shoulder and ear , his feet keeping steady on the cracks of the concrete slabs as he walked across them. _Walk on the cracks, your luck is already shit. Why try to change that._

“Well, I’m working, and I’ll be home later. Don’t go inside, but if you must there is a crowbar beneath mum’s old chest in the attic” he demanded, and Harry nodded to himself knowing that Zayn wasn’t going to expect a reply, the phone clicked off and Harry exhaled into the air , wishing he could be rid of all emotions by doing just that , by just breathing.

Zayn focused on the tall, dark haired boy in the corner of the room, that familiar roach perched between his cracked lips, the drug bouncing of the walls as he respired, the many others doing the same. As he inhaled, his eyes closed in pleasure, the drug probably working its way into his system, that familiar background buzz of energy beginning in the pit of his stomach, his muscles relaxing and his whole behaviour becoming calmer.

Marijuana was pretty common, passed around like chewing gum in the school assembly hall, but Zayn was dealing something far more dangerous, something that could cause serious damage.

“His names Mattie,” A familiar drawl whispered into his ear and Zayn could see the familiar stormy blue eyes of his accomplice, red-rimmed to show that maybe ‘Lou the drug dude’ had taken a hit from his own stash.

“Been wanting the crack for weeks now, take no shit yeah Malik, get it done.” he spat, caressing Zayn’s cheek with a tap of his thumb, sending him a flirty wink before taking on the offer of supplying the needs of a red-head for her 16th birthday.  Zayn sighed, grabbing that staple red cup full of an unknown throat-burning liquid and taking a wincing sip, before making his way over to the buyer.

The roach was flicked to the floor once the boy noticed Zayn walking over, his head nodding to gesture over to the porch area, Zayn nodded and kept eye-contact with the young boy, he knew there was a reason Louis liked him, it wasn’t just for his good looks but because he was good at dealing and he knew how to get the job done, however he wasn’t the best.

“So?” the boy smirked once they had found a quiet area behind a few bins , his eyes red –rimmed but his movements relaxed and slow, but after this next dose, he’d be jittery and on edge a pulsing combination when shared with loud bass, and alcohol leading to an almost endless high.

Zayn raised his eyebrow in questioning, when the boy laid out his palm flat in front of him, his movements becoming slightly quicker as the weed was starting to wear off, but his eyes were still hazy.

“Money first” Zayn demanded, and the boy seemed to grow frustrated but stuck his hand into his denim jacket muttering swears, as random notes flailed to the floor beneath, and Zayn found it slightly amusing when the boy launched to the floor aiming to grab them all before they were blown away by the wind, he liked them to know who was in charge.

Being passed a handful of notes, Zayn counted them quickly before throwing the bag of cocaine to the floor, watching as the boy scrambled to reach it, before giving Zayn an ignored ‘thank you’ as he swaggered away, back to the palpitating beat of the house.

Louis took the notes, his slightly crazed and bright eyes, along with skittish movements confirming Zayn’s original suspicions; he was thanked by being handed back about a quarter of the original payment the rest being placed in the breast pocket of Louis’ worn leather jacket. He needed to leave, but he noticed the familiar bright purple tinge of Louis’ right-hand man, and was distracted for a moment.

“Niall” Louis shouted, as he caught sight of the Irish native, the seemingly large ocean of people drifting apart like Moses parting the red sea, everyone knew the young boy, this was his territory and people had respect for the boy. Zayn also noticed Josh, Niall’s Siamese twin, they were inseparable and if you squinted hard enough you could almost see their auras mingling together like potions creating their indestructible friendship. Niall merely nodded at Louis, acknowledging his presence in a simple way, they had had their disputes like usual business men but secretly Zayn knew there lay a deep mistrust that Niall held against Lou, but Tomlinson was seemingly oblivious to it.

Knowledge of a new customer was passed from Louis’ drunken mouth into Niall’s calculative and precise brain, Josh slouching against the stair case beside them, his eyes scanning the room for anything that seemed out of place in the booming laser lights of a house party well under way.

 A curt nod ended the discussion, and Zayn watched with absorbed curiosity at how the boy with the best reputation in these situations actually did the deal, Louis may have been an obnoxious twat in the drug world but he kept Niall around for a reason, but it wasn’t companionship.

The customer was a tall and fairly intimidating character, he wasn’t intoxicated like the rest of the guests at the open drug-fest, and he held a sharp, narrow-eyed gaze on Niall who wasn’t daunted by the elder man’s scrutiny. Niall simply sauntered over, stood slightly to the right of the man and pulled out a rolled joint, his blank face being replaced by a childish smirk as he lit the joint, he paused to purse his lips and exhale dramatically in the man’s face.

“Money” he spat in his face, and the man nodded once, handing over money which Niall leisurely counted, a sneer on his face as he paused every £20 note to suck on the roach, the smoke drifting to the air, in the end the bag was subtlety handed over and Niall disappeared into the garden where he dropped the joint into a half cup of vodka before visibly jumping over the fence, turning to look straight at Zayn to leave him with a unheard bark of laughter , and a scorching wink.

Zayn shook his head in laughter as this was exactly how the young boy was described, very arrogant in his appearance his bright purple hair dip-dye clashing against the blond of his roots, that constant sneer attached to his face, and Josh acting almost like a bodyguard to the average heighted Irish. Forgetting momentarily about Niall and the now claustrophobic place of his standing, he then meandered his way through the horde of sloshed teenagers, to make a quick exit into the fresh air.

The clean air cleared his congested senses, and he felt relatively calmer as the cool midnight breeze washed away the thrumming in his temples and the pounding bass line soothed with each quickened step on the pebbly footpath.  Sending a brief text to his brother, he had hopes that his Father would fulfil his juvenile wishes of being a magician, and do that same, fairly regular disappearing trick of his, Zayn would be happy to walk up that dismantled pathway to his childhood home.

But as he treads across the familiar rickety wooden bridge that leads over a littered and foul-smelling reservoir which the many kids from the estate have jumped into after dares, or where they sit and smoke whilst they should be at school, glaring and looking overly troublesome. A tall and fairly daunting character , stands overlooking murky water barely visible in the darkness, their breath clouding the air with its stark temperature difference, but as they turn , Zayn releases a breath that he didn’t realise he was holding.

“Got a job for you” Tom utters simply, his feet that were previously tapping out an unfamiliar tune into the base of the bridge, still for a moment, as he pulls out a familiar brown paper bag, dropping it to the floor , and nudging it with the toe of his worn converse. It slaps with an inaudible sound against Zayn’s own shoes, but he doesn’t move, twisting his head to capture the darkening of Tom’s eyes, those greys like a cloudy sky, turning a deeper shade with annoyance.

 “Sorry” he states, with a tone of regret which only irks his previous partner further, but he hides it with a harsh smirk that hits Zayn in the pit of his stomach. Tom had come into Zayn’s pitiful life when he was 13, his parents were wealthy and had expected him to attend the local catholic school but he’d rebelled choosing to leave the affluent area of London in which he grew up in, and venture into the almost alien like area of Brixton at nights, where Zayn was currently existing, but never actually living.

They met at a party where Tom was smuggling in weed he’d found in his elder brothers bathroom beneath his ratty clothes whilst he was at University. Sharing a smoke of a tossed Marlboro, Zayn confided in Tom about his younger brother and abusive father hoping to find something that they shared some common ground in, Tom was surprised about how Zayn had survived his life but didn’t mention about his unambiguous difference in childhood with expensive gifts on birthdays and large champagne bottles given as gifts on New Year’s.

As well as drunken tales over cheap beer bottles, both boys were then tangled up into a plaguing drugs game, delivering them to random doorsteps on the dilapidated estate  or providing them in bulk at parties and whilst Zayn was suspicious as to where Tom actually sourced the drugs from , no questioning ever took place.

But after a few years of companionship, Tom disappeared, leaving Zayn with nothing and aged 15 he met Louis the new provider and once again the constant cycle of gangs, theft and drugs begun.

“You left , I’ve got Lou now” he finished , meeting those grey eyes again before shaking away the memories with a polite nod of his head, hoping to just head home. Tom shook his head smiling, and while Zayn had grown he was still easy, easy to manipulate and mess with, he’d have to learn to control these flaws in his personality to persist in this business, and his weak point was simple to pinpoint and defeat.

“I’ve seen you working for that little impertinent bitch. I’d always thought you’d be the leader but no you’re still beneath, a slave, listening to orders” Tom said, his eyes gleaming as he watched Zayn become rigid, not with fear but a burning anger he knew he wouldn’t have to guts to fulfil, he couldn’t hurt the person who’d saved him. Saved him from starvation, loneliness and despair , although it wasn’t the best path to take , it was the only one available to a struggling teen growing up in an area where drugs and alcohol were common and the dealing of them were the only way of escaping from concrete paradise.

“Well Tom , he may be a cheeky bastard but he gives me jobs and doesn’t leave and lie about being a rich little shit , now does he” Zayn spits, the anger slowly being released and rolling like sweat down the ridge of his spine. Tom winces at the unforgiving words, he knew that the deceptions would come back to bite him, but he had been honest to Zayn just not mentioning his origin otherwise unneeded jealousy would arise. If they’d met at this age, and not as bright young teens, daring and willing to take risks with no idea of the fiery consequences and the moulding reputations building the bridges to their futures, he would have changed how he had acted. But unfortunately you can’t change the past.

“Zee, I know I did wrong , but this job , it’ll be your last for sure” he sighs, ignoring the way Zayn rolls his eyes like he’s heard it all before, which he probably has, being in and out of gangs and in and out of dodgy dealings .

“The paycheque” he say, a whistle representing just how much money could be made from this one job, and as much as Zayn did not like to admit it, he was definitely intrigued especially as he was close, working overtime these past few weeks and possibly out of his comfort zone with people he usually didn’t like to share breathing space with, an arrangement with an old acquaintance couldn’t hurt that much.

“Ok” he said, ignoring the buzzing of a phone in his back pocket, Tom’s smile was briefly replaced by a grimace as he contemplated a few minor issues in the plan , but it didn’t pass by the scrutiny of dark brown eyes .

“One last thing, bring me Horan, tomorrow. Outside the old units in Camden where we used to meet, at 9pm” he said, ignoring the way Zayn opened his mouth momentarily looking slightly gormless at the demand from the brunette, but he nodded once Tom had retreated from the bridge in the opposite direction leaving with a simple, shit-eating grin and that brown package still sat at Zayn’s feet.

Walking the short distance home and considering that recent request and exactly he was supposed to fulfil Tom’s wishes, he remembered his phone, and quickly pulled it from his pocket, internally shaking with worry seeing that it was from Harry.

Harry walked home with a slight skip in his step, Zayn was at home so the chance that his Father was still there was pretty low, he hardly ever touched the elder boy, sometimes slurring swears but nothing more, most of his abuse being thrown at the younger brunette. Harry had seen the stars while at the skate park, one star shining brighter than all the rest and filling Harry with an unknown warmth and happiness, he told it his secrets in whispers knowing that it was his Mother.

Of course the star didn’t respond, and maybe Harry was being slightly delusional about these things as he had never actually met his mother, as she had died while giving birth to him. Zayn had known her, and told Harry of her kindness, her shining green eyes which he had inherited and her curly light brown locks which he tugged at with his chubby, toddler fists.

 No one except their Father would ever truly know her, Zayn was only of 3 years when she had passed, Harry being merely days old, in that incubator by her hospital bed, gurgling childishly. When their Father had looked over into that glass crib, a small Zayn by his side, pouting at the fact that their mother was nowhere to be seen and that there was a new baby to be taken care of. Tears formed out of hatred in Yaser’s eyes, this baby had killed his wife, and the love of his life was now gone and replaced by a dependent child. From that day forward he wanted nothing to do with this baby, it may be his flesh and blood, but its soul was deadly and didn’t glow with life but with death.

Harry remembered when he was 6 years old, playing in their overgrown garden those dimples peeking out as his elder brother splashed him with water from the hose, their baggy clothing becoming soaked and sticking to their little bodies. The bang of the door, brought them quickly out of their fun, their father appeared at the back door, his eyes red-rimmed and scarily open as he stared down at his sons. Zayn the braver of the two, and the oldest approached the large man, but even as his son was talking to him, the brutal glare never left that of his younger son who was cowering in the corner of the unkempt garden , weeds stuck to the unruly mess of his curly locks, those eyes holding unshed tears. Backing away, he told them to be quiet in the harshest of manners, retreating to the attic where he had kept all of his wife’s belongings, as he looked through them treasuring the sight of his beloved wife his heart hurtled and that same hatred burned brightly.

Approaching the boys, who were now sipping from the hose, the water dribbling from their lips with each giggle as they compared how wet they were, Harry did not notice the fist that clenched his collar. Zayn ran from the room, screaming as he begged the photograph of his mother on the mantelpiece to return and save him from the monster that lived in his house, the bloody crumpled body of his sibling passed out against the wall etched like a scar into his memory. 

Those pebbles still remained, those weeds that grew tall like a jungle in Madagascar also remained, those memories did as well, carved into the skin with a rusty knife, disease spreading in affect and creating the person that was Harry. Recollections of small children running, imaginations wild and chubby limbs growing every day , bruises built after adventures but the monster remained in real life, it never disappeared.

Every child has the monster hidden under the bed, which peaks out its shadowed hand in a frightening greeting through stories, dreams running riot whilst parents look through the tangled mass of a Childs brain to bring forward the halo of truth, and finally leave the child to rest its head against the feather pillow.

But what happens when that monster isn’t under the bed, but sat in front of the television, cradling a bottle of liquor and sharing its love but denying it as well, what if the one creating the nightmares and laying down the dark bruises is the one who shares the filthy blood that runs through your veins, who is supposed to save you, you can only blame yourself and lay with the monster beneath the bed as your only companion through life.

Standing on that concrete porch and squinting through the murky jungle of  childhood to see that shining north star, that defeats all pollution to give you a message, a message of love that slowly drops like liquid into a thirsty man’s stomach, his mouth so dry they can hardly collect the moistness of water. Large fists are clasped around your collar, choking through your breathes as your lay limp in their arms , two eyes meet darkening almost instantly once they realise the culprit of the torture, but Harry hardly seems surprised, preparing for the regular blow to his gut.

“Happy Birthday to my filthy bastard of a son” Yaser slurs, a lit cigarette hanging from his cracked lips, he leans forward slightly a smirk on his aged face, digging Harry into the wall of the house that lit blunt brushing past his pale cheek, and leaving a wincing burn. Harry convulses in his arms, that burn bleeding another wound into his body the scathing leaving a treacherous heat on his face, which reaches a throttling peak in his skull.

The cigarette is pulled from his lips, and he laughs as he pushes it past the lips of his younger son, the choking and spluttering he hears in return bringing a dirty grin to his face.  Harry is dropped from the wall with a sharp kick in the stomach, leaving him winded but Yaser only laughs, as he sips from a bottle of Heineken before placing a sarcastic kiss on his forehead and a severe tug on his curls before leaving.

“Bye, my little fucker. Hope you don’t make it past 16” he spits as he slams the car door shut, starting the engine with a salute of his head and speeding off into the night. Harry stills on the floor that Marlboro still brightly lit as he smashes against it in anger, his head knocking back against the brick wall. _Why! Why is it always me? Why the fuck can’t he take his anger out on someone else?_

The anger still rippling through his body, he needs an escape, either some vases are smashed in ire against the wall but that would only ensue more deadly beatings from his father, or maybe that will end in his last breath. Thoughts swarm through his head, but he knows he has to do something before he’s locked into his brothers’ arms and whispers of calmness are ushered into his clattered and buzzed brain.

Treading up the stairs into the attic, his fists clenched by his side his mind swarming with random disturbing creations of how he can take out his anger, from the old rusty spanner on the rocky wooden shelf on top of the unused electric heater, the case full of his mother’s things, her satin nightgowns covered in dust bunnies or the treasured photographs where she looks beautiful but her heart lies to her about its owner, it should not be in the dirty palms of their Father.

Laughing in a menacingly psychotic way, those unshed tears falling down his face, as he coops up like a child sent into time-out, his arms folded across his lanky legs, pulling them close to shield his face as a cold breeze bursts through the small window across the dingy loft.

After a while of shedding those salty tears that collect at his collarbones and soak his shirt he hears the familiar calls of his brother, stomping about on the first floor obviously wondering where he’s hiding but he doesn’t make a sound, not wanting to be comforted at the moment; just wants to know when it’s all going to end.

 

 He crawls across the floor, a nail scratching against the pulse on his wrist and causing him to wince but it also curbs the dent in his heart, the burn on his face still palpitating and making him want to tear into the skin of his face with his sharp, filthy nails. Locking the trapdoor with a rusty knife he finds beneath some greying sheets that were lay about, it shakes under the palms of his brother who’s pushing against it with all his strength, but Harry only curls up into the corner. After a few more minutes of hoarse screams from Zayn who has become too frustrated to be bothered and has retired to his bedroom, to smoke a few silk cuts and possibly sneak a look into that ominous brown paper bag.

Harry stills for a few moments , that throbbing on his face now spreading to a dull burning which itches slightly, like an untreated rash on a baby’s bottom left their by disregarding parents who are too caught up in their own business to care for the neglected child, sobbing in its crib. A pen is found, and a few old brown cardboard boxes, and maybe if there’s no pen-knife or razor then Harry’s own imagination and the blood dripping from the scar on his wrist which lay next to the old fading ones , will help.

**_The emotional pain screams at you within as you crawl across the cold tiled bathroom floor, your hands fisting you hair tightly in arrogance as if you are begging this unknown source to rid you of the burning fire scathing your insides; causing no actual pain but scarring you mind with an emotional brand of defeat. You almost beg for death._ **

**_That moment when it’s releasing, that shiny and sharp object dancing across your innocent and beautifully pale skin. The tips drags against it harshly and you hiss as the pain fades, an exhilarating feeling flashing through your body but you want the physical pain to override the emotional pain so you dig a little deeper. Hopefully enough to plunge you into that darkness that you crave. It comes slowly and you eyelids flutter closes, you don’t try to stop it, it’s what you’ve dreamt off._ **

**_The cold surface against your skin, that remaining hot blood dripping from your arms, the warm sensation settling you, the ice cold rippling through you as your last sensation. Those last severe breaths you take are sweet as you silently say goodbye to those who never loved you, those who tortured your mind, scarring your unloved heart and breaking every part of your emotional body beyond repair with each word, and each darkening bruise._ **

**_You smell the air that metallic blood soothing and giving you dizziness as you pass through, no happy memories send you on your way but your whole body relaxes as the pain is finally released, no longer pressurised into your chest beside your fragile heart.  You die silently in your own world and your last thought is peace, it’s done and no more agony can ever be laid upon your insubstantial body again._ **

Eventually Harry withdrew from the attic the cardboard crushed in his fist, tear tracks covering his face and making him looked like a slapped kid, that burnt bruise dark beneath his eyelashes as they cast a shadow. Zayn came from his room , a third cigarette between his lips, his eyes red from the smoke as in his hurry to crave the urge no window was opened, so his bedroom resembled a burnt bread factory. Arms were opened and Harry crashed into them, huddling into the warmth that enveloped him from Zayn’s chest, but no words were spoken between either boys only the hiccupping that came after tears, or Zayn’s apologetic sighs that could probably do more than words.

Since Zayn’s room was far too smoky to breathe clearly within, and Harry’s room had the largest bed, they clustered inside, beneath the covers as if there really was a monster beneath the bed that would claw through the bedframe to snatch away the teens and keep them as playthings in a dungeon beneath the molten lava. Shivering even though the room was overly warm, bare toes touching at random moments as they tried not to flail around the bed, or take up too much quilt and sleep in a starfish position. Sleep eventually came to Harry, whose dreams involved random colours clashing together to make unimaginable paintings by unkempt artists of the night, while Zayn lay awake staring into the starry sky.

 For Zayn the darkness of the night is like a soft blanket eliciting those hidden childlike emotions from everybody in its presence, those who are scared stay hidden using sleep to escape the darkness and silence which is beautiful to those who truly listen to the night. Although those dreams transported Zayn from the concreted world in which he grew up, the night and its silence enveloped and broke down his outer shell creating a rabid and hyper creature of the night. There was nothing like the night its cool breath, scared of the heat emitting from the bright sun with its evil smile unhidden and displayed, unlike the night which is shadowy, mysterious and never portraying its true emotion. Much like himself, with its silence that’s almost musical in its own right , relatable to those who are too hidden , their emotions buried too deep to ever be revealed, they are unnerved to any affection and their internal suffering is their way in which they cope with the world.

Harry lived for his dreams, the unrealistic travels which the mind conjures up; the perfect world. Colours; from the cerulean blues of the deep ocean, full of mystery and life forms that glide through the water effortlessly, mesmerising those who dare venture out into its home. The orange that holds the secrets of wealth, heat and light. The sunset like a dancer that moves flutteringly across the atmosphere, seemingly too beautiful for this world. A dancer which spreads this golden sunshine across the sky but its innocence and unmistakable splendour is captured by the darkness of the night , its evil clutches not willing it to squirm away to reveal its beauty until it has had its fun.

Once the sunset rose, and unsurprisingly Zayn was still awake, tapping away at his phone, Harry begin to feel a draft against his bare feet and tugged relentlessly at the quilt in hope of shying underneath into the cavern of warmth. Laughs occurred between the two brothers, Harry jumping so he was straddling the elder to tickle at his sides while Zayn may be pushed a little too hard at the taller boy so he fell to the floor, taking the blanket in a heap with him.

“You bastard!” Harry cried playfully, glaring when all he received from Zayn was the finger and the waggle of his tongue, before he dived under the covers complaining of tiredness and fell asleep. Falling asleep in literally minutes was an attribute of Zayn’s he was proud of, a boring biology lesson with Mr Fry, well sleep was an option or maybe one of those drunken blackjack games Louis liked to host on Friday nights with some big, hairy ginger dude who liked to think he was a reincarnation of Jesus with his singing skills.

“I’m going to Nick’s” Harry muttered to no one in particular, as he peeled of his uniform which was sticky with tears, blood and sweat. Wincing, he headed to bathroom, where he rifled through the First Aid kit that Zayn had nicked from the Nurses office at school although Mrs Pierson was probably aware of who it was. The amount of bruises and cuts both boys came to school with, Harry from his father, Zayn with dodgy buyers or from defending Harry but Mrs Pierson helped them out and let them borrow plasters, bottles of antiseptic cream and painkillers.

Working in a school in the middle of a council estate teaches you a few things, first of all, you don’t ask questions but you can help them and when Zayn ran in one afternoon pretty flustered, a large cut above his eyebrow Mrs Pierson just patched him up, and when she turned, the door was slammed shut and the first aid kit was gone.

Harry dabbed on some burn ointment, which scorched painfully on the bruise and put some Hydrogen peroxide on the deep gash he didn’t realise was on his wrist, grimacing as he did so, biting back all the swears in the English dictionary .

 After flicking through random bundles of clothes in his room he found another one of Zayn’s stashes, with the money Zayn was bringing in he had hidden away secret stashes of watches, cigarettes and marijuana as Zayn didn’t dare keep hold of the more dangerous drugs but a few joints here and there didn’t kill him. Dressed in some skinny black jeans, and an old tee he found in the stash of clothes in a plastic bag beneath Zayn’s bed which were obviously stolen from some sort of wholesaler, he patted Zayn’s head, giggling girlishly at the whack he got in return, and then left.

Walking across the estate, and over the reservoir, his thoughts ran to Nick, he had attended the same school as Harry up through high school but being a few years older, hadn’t bothered to go to St Edmunds college which in the opposite direction of the estate, just outside of Brixton. Harry was willing to attend the college; he wanted more than anything to escape the treacherous cage that was Brixton and see more of London and then the world. Nick although a slightly untrustworthy character, had helped Harry out in a few situations, and let him stay with him for a few weeks last year when his Father had beaten him within an inch of his life, and Zayn was in Jail for theft while he was on a deal in Manchester.

Zayn and Nick also had a rocky relationship, Zayn thinking that Nick was just using Harry to drag him into his sad excuse of a posse .Nick was trying to create his own gang, of sorts, but his father being in and out of prison and his elder brother who had made a better name for himself over in Manchester as a legal advisor, he was finding it hard to make people take his swaggering persona seriously. The gang or just random groupings of people that tended to hang outside his flat, smoking a few joints, swearing at the elderly neighbours and overall just being nuisances were no match for Lou’s group.

Zayn had rarely involved Harry in his so-called work, but when their father was drinking that same tequila, or vomiting up bourbon in their crummy bathroom and Harry didn’t really feel like being beaten to a pulp, he was invited along. Louis was slightly psychotic, his eyes always red-rimmed and his movements too fast, the white substance sticky against his hands and his overall hyper appearance had frightened Harry sometimes, and even though he held a grudge against Zayn for joining a mob, he was glad he wasn’t an addict.

Zayn normally left once the boys started getting high, the meetings were fairly short and mainly involved Louis bouncing around the room, sometimes swapping between a slow drawl of words or fast banter, his personality like a bipolar child almost as if wanted to be like Peter Pan and stay in this delusional Never land, snorting that sweet sugar that covered his veins.

Harry liked to think that Zayn and he had more class, and they probably did, not dressing like a raided store of Sports direct or preferring shots of that sharp liquor that they borrowed from the back of their father’s old fiat. Other than these strange meetings in some mouldy garage and the exchange of brown packages and addresses, Harry was rarely involved but not that he minded.

Seeing the same faces outside Nick’s concrete flat, they greeted Harry with dirty sneers and offers of some cheap non-brand vodka, which he declined happily, the door opened and out popped a dishevelled Nick, his black hair chaotic and his eyes obscure with tiredness rimmed with dark circles, and his smile didn’t do much to brighten his sickly complexion.

Harry can’t help but keep in a snort as he watched Nick flounder round his messy apartment, complaining about his banging headache as he wanders into his scruffy kitchen to pour himself a drink but while rooting through his fridge all he can find it WKD and cheese slices. Harry can’t exactly take any judgement against the guy; he’d been scoffing from cartons of cold Chinese, or stealing some notes from Zayn’s worn leather jacket and living off of fried chips and mayonnaise whilst piling bags of crisps and dairy milk beneath his creaky bed for a rainy day.

After a while, and some snappy conversations with Zayn over text about him meeting up with some bloke in Camden, and whether Harry knows where a certain Josh Devine lives, Nick resigns to the couch, flipping off his worn Nikes and resting his head on the armrest before throwing Harry a questioning look. _Why the hell are you here?_

“Bored, I guess? Z’s going to Camden” he mutters , and as his throat burns with thirst he brushes of the urge to sip from the beer can on the table, because alcohol just makes him nervy and that’s not what he needs right now.

“Hey d’ya know Josh Devine” he questions Nick, who frowns at the question, before shrugging in return, and before Harry can change the subject as the look on Nick’s face says it all. He’s interrupted by a bombardment of _Why? What’s happened? And who wants to know?_

“I know him; he’s a nice guy, just hanging around with that purple haired guy. Don’t know his name” he says simply, that frown still etched upon his face making the twenty-something year old look significantly older, which wouldn’t really suit his edgy persona. They end up talking about some concert over in the centre of London, and even though Harry grew up on a council estate, the whole grime music isn’t really his thing; he prefers hippie and rockier tones which are part of the reason he hangs out with Nick, he’s different.

It hits him like a bundle of bricks, that purple hair, it was unforgettable and had been playing like a cd on repeat through his subconscious for the past few days, but not until today had he really begun to think about their consultation during the period where Harry’s brain is sort of fuzzy.

“Niall!” he finds himself shouting, and Nick just looks at him confusedly his eyes lightening before he bursts into peals of laughter at Harry’s rather sudden outburst, but Harry gives him a look of seriousness before it fades into sniggers at the back of his throat. Harry then begins to tell Nick, in short clipped sentences about the brief meeting with him and Niall, and how the guy who knocked him to the concrete was probably Josh, and he counters Nicks view on his appearance: his bulky stance, with deep-set eyebrows and good right hook.

Harry leaves late that night, and although his social calendar is virtually empty nowadays he feels satisfied around Nick, he’s never been one for friendship and maybe the only reason Nick actually likes him is because he is pretty desperate himself, and they are an odd mixture but as long as Harry has someone to confide in, he isn’t that worried about how brimming his thoughts are. That same star is shining again, but it doesn’t leave a bubbling happiness but a dull thrumming as though it’s more of an omen than anything else, his mother probably isn’t looking down at him.

Bumping shoulders with Louis that night is probably not the best thing to ever happen to Harry, but it’s still below having a vase smashed against his head leaving him with a concussion, and a sharp cut above his left eyebrow. Easily recognizable because of his green eyes, and those brown curls, Louis seems slightly less manic and riled up than most nights but Harry can’t help but get a little suspicious as to why he’s asking about Zayn.

“He’s in Camden” he says, and when Louis raises his eyebrows in questioning; Harry doesn’t know what to say as Louis should probably know himself. Louis doesn’t say anything else just nods a quick farewell and wanders into the opposite direction and it’s honestly the scariest thing Harry’s ever seen because if that’s not the quietest he’s ever seen the guy, it was probably when he was last unconscious in front of the queen porcelain bowl.

The breeze is whipping against Harry’s hair, sending it flailing into a curly bundle which he constantly has to unravel from a tangled mess on his head, annoying as it is, he feels blessed he doesn’t share any of the same attributes as his father, whereas Zayn does. His feet dangle off the edge of the bench, as he lays his head rather uncomfortably against the coiled metal armrest which is probably leaving indents across the back of his neck, which is starting to feel numb, but it’s refreshing just to lay here in a park and contemplate.

Thoughts dash across his brain, glossy dreams and blurring memories as he tries to find a recollection of particular happiness where he actually felt as though he belonged, none seem to appear in the mass. Sighing to himself, he leans down to pick up a weedy flower from the grass, twirling it between his thumb and pointer finger, its beauty is nothing, the yellowing leaves speckled with a green along with prickly hairs covering the stem. Flowers lead such simple lives; they grow from a small seed, into this flower and are eventually picked by an inquisitive toddler with wide eyes, and wilt away in their small hand as they try to bring it back to live in a plastic cup on the windowsill.

That’s what Harry wants to be, a toddler with wide excited eyes, their fingers craving strange touches and their tongues developing tastes. Sugar gets them excited, that sticky honey drizzled onto a spoon or spread like butter on bread and eaten out in the summer, as parents scold them for eating too much. Ignorance is key, they don’t yet know the danger in the world, stories of kidnappers that prowl the streets with hunger, or murderers’ sharpening knifes with the urge for blood to drip from the smooth metal, they’re only stories, they don’t matter. Goofy smiles as they roll around in the mud not caring for their soft white cotton clothing or their carefully brushed locks, wide eyes as they are frightened with ghost stories or tear-tracked red cheeks after a clouting.

Harry wants children, he craves them, and he wants to bring them up in the right way. Days out in the park with picnics and dripping ice lollies as the sun beats down on their chubby limbs, giggling filling the house as he tickles them in front of the crackling fire after sticky marshmallows, soft snores erupting from their parted lips after he’d given another rendition of their favourite song in their softly lit bedroom.

Reality eventually hits him, and he isn’t in the park with dancing children or staring over at a child as he tucks them into their bed, kissing their forehead in a silent ‘goodnight’. He’s surrounded by a littered park, that familiar stench of London blowing through his nostrils, sitting up and groaning at his stiff neck his bundles himself up into his hoodie and tries to think of another reason as to why his life is actually worth living.

Zayn on the other hand, is knocking on a door, number 14 Greely Street to be exact. A fairly small woman, with greying dark brown hair greasily tied up into a pony, and tired brown eyes opens up, her face is stone cold but her eyes just scream exhaustion and Zayn knows she’s probably just working herself to the bone.

“Mrs Devine?” he questions, his eyebrows raised, the woman’s face turn slightly softer and as she dusts down her fading blue nurse overall, she nods her head. Before she can reply though, two boys are tumbling down the stairs, laughing and swearing, but two ice cold blue eyes focus on Zayn and that pearly white smile disappears into an emotionless look.

“Malik” Josh says, with a snarky grin and his mother takes this as a moment to leave, sliding past Zayn in the doorway, and giving a silent goodbye to the boys. Most mothers on the estate are like that, not questioning what their children do, it may seem slightly ignorant but it’s for the best, children can easily turn nasty, it’s best just not to get involved in some situations.

Zayn takes this opportunity to walk into the house, it’s slightly dingy much like Zayn’s house with random stains dotted around the carpets and dents in the ceilings but it doesn’t reek of alcohol, so it seems more homely. Both boys are dressed casually, in sweats and old band tees but their faces are the opposite of relaxed, Josh looks infuriated his eyes blow wide with anger, and Zayn knew they had no string of friendship between them but they’d at least greet each other respectively.

“What are you doing here?” Niall questions sternly, but his lips twitch slightly so Zayn knows he’s holding back a grin, the way his blue eyes dance between Josh and Zayn, he’s hoping some sort of fight occurs, because life has been boring recently and he thrives off drama. Josh steps forward when Zayn doesn’t reply, demanding to know why he’s here, while Zayn just stays glued to the hallway, choosing to ignore the brunette and turn to Niall instead.

“We’ve got a job” he declares, and Niall quirks his eyebrow clicking his tongue piercing against his lip ring, in a noise of disagreement. Josh looks over at Niall, whose now casually leaning against the wall, as if to say _what the fuck is this dude on about?_   A silent and rapid conversation goes on between the boys, and Zayn’s confused, because he’s met some mental fuckers in his life but telepathy is just the strangest thing he’s seen. The conversation, if you can even call it that, ends but Zayn’s still wearing that bemused expression and it makes Josh glare and Niall swallow his laughter like bile.

“Well whatever we have, Louis hasn’t confirmed it” he retorts , placing the ‘we’ in inverted commas with a hand gesture and a pair of raised brown eyebrows, which Zayn had just noticed, because he  always thought his natural hair colour was blond and he’d just dyed it purple after some rebellious streak but now it seems he’s actually brunette.

“It’s not Louis’ who we’re working for” he snaps back just as ferociously,  Josh tenses and prays that Zayn doesn’t say anything else, or he’ll sure get a thump in the stomach.

“If you’d just listen to me” he sighs frustratedly, and Niall then flashes his all too known smirk, but relaxes further into the wall, finding it rather humorous that Malik, who he thought was a rather calm and enigmatic person, could get so highly strung.

 Josh doesn’t move, and stays rather rigid in a spot with his socked feet planted firmly in the ground awaiting this so-called job that was getting Malik so riled up.

“Look” he laments, fluffing through his fringe not really caring if his hair was collapsing against his fingers, he just needed to bring Tom’s request up without it causing any argument, especially with Josh who seemed overly protective of Niall.

“My friend Tom…” he inputs, but he is quickly interrupted by Niall, whose eyes are blown a little wider but more distant as if recollecting memories, his posture straightening and little sniggers foaming in bubbles from his cherry pink lips, that Zayn didn’t notice were rather thin and plump.

“Gallagher!” he cries, pumping Josh on the back who just raises his eyebrows and lets out an awkward laugh at his best friends antics, whilst Zayn just feels left out, watching the two boys embrace. Josh whispers something into Niall’s ear, gesturing not so subtlety over at Zayn whose still silent and unmoving, wondering how the hell Tom knows Niall.

The intriguing thoughts bubble up in Zayn’s stomach, until they’re fizzing like popping candy in his throat and he cannot help but ask the question burning on his lips.

“How the hell do you know Tom?” he asks harsher than he initially expected, and Niall tips his head with an amused expression, the purple tip of his hair sagging slightly against his pale forehead.

“Grew up with him, he lived next door to me in Camden, not talked to him for a while though” he says with a smirk, as if he can see the jealousy that’s rolling off of Zayn in large, sticky globules. Josh just stands there, obviously having heard the story of NiallandTom before, but he purses his lips in thought anyway, that same greenness appearing in his eyes.

Niall and Josh are impossibly close on the bus, and Niall turns from the silent rock star he was at the house party to a cheerful, care-free lad, singing along to some old crappy pop song blaring through the dusty speakers of the bus, and creating a burstable bubble of joy which easily spreads along the boys. Goofy dance moves, and dodgy hand gestures to passer-byes in cars has all the boys in hilarity and suddenly Zayn doesn’t mind the boy with the blue eyes, he could become a good friend.

They end up outside the grimy unit within an hour, the directions having been previously imprinted like a tattoos against his tanned skin, after all those nights of escaping here and daringly knocking back shots of Russian vodka with a boy whose eyes shone with hope, but the more Zayn examines these memories the more those eyes only shone with deceit.

It’s just as Zayn remembers, dirty concrete flooring, high ceilings and a cold air running through the place with an almost ghostly welcome. Tom stands at the back, leaning against the wall, his face is pretty straight but once he sees Niall it turns into a lightning bolt smile, and it also hits Zayn straight in the heart, leaving it fizzing.

“Horan, you little shit. Where’ve you been, people are actually paying to be in your presence dude” he says, as he picks Niall up in a hug, and swing him around playfully and Zayn swears he’s never seen a bigger smile on the boy’s face. Josh doesn’t loosen his posture until Niall is back on the ground, and his beam is pearly, that black lips ring clashing against it.

 

“Zee, thanks for bringing him, not seen him for a while, he’s like a little brother to me” Tom says honestly, and Zayn simply stands there because he doesn’t know what to say. He had always thought Tom was like his brother but when he saw him again all he was offered was some cocaine in a brown paper bag, no hug or beaming smile and the betrayal hits him like ice, freezing him to the core.

Greetings are quickly ended, and Tom wears a fresh expression as he explains their job, and if Zayn thought Louis was pretty hysterical then Tom must be an escapee from a mental hospital, his idea is ridiculous and they’d asking personally to burn in hell to even attempt the mission.

“Are you fucking crazy?!” Zayn can’t help but cry after Tom has gone through the plans, Tom throws him a look thinking back to when Zayn would do anything, and his fearlessness grew him a reputable status, if someone recommended a good dealer he’d be one of them. But Zayn is adamant that it won’t work, they’d be put into prison with no thoughts and it’s totally out of his comfort zone.

“Look, the shadows won’t see it coming. We’re just gonna vandalise some of their property, and take a few of their customers, you’re doing Louis a favour by taking them off our turf” he said, his hazel eyes sparkling with a glory as if he’d been holding the shining halo the whole time. Zayn knew Tom had a passion for what he did, but he could escape back to his world of luxury every morning, it was an escapade for him, not real life. Whereas Zayn lived and breathed the estate, the concrete walls were inescapable and you were looked down upon by others, you were scum and nothing could change that.

The way he talked about the shadows was pretty funny, he talked about it calmly as if they weren’t the most notorious gang in London who had held up many banks, and had pen knifes in their back pockets ready to hold up against another’s throat ready to slit if they rebelled. Shivers rolled down Zayn’s back at the thought, he was nowhere near as experienced to take down such a dangerous group of people, and even when Louis jokingly threatened to kill their mysteriously named leader, Zayn knew he was talking through the drugs, and not just because of his dazed faraway look.

“It’ll be fun” Niall echoed gleefully his blue eyes getting stormier with determination, and Zayn was now thinking of taking back the idea of becoming an acquaintance of the Irish boy, hopefully Josh would have more sense. But Josh only followed Niall’s lead, obviously wanting to impress his best friend otherwise what would be the point with NiallandJosh , they were thick as thieves.

“Bullshit!” Zayn muttered under his breath as he stood up, he felt that pressure of anger build in his chest but on the other hand he couldn’t help but feel a buzz of excitement at the prospect. Niall’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, the amount of rumours he had heard about the masked gang who prowled the streets of London imprinting their name upon brick walls, and threatening people with knifes it would be fun to hold them hostage for once, to be infamous. Zayn was acting strangely, tapping his feet rhythmically against the cold concrete, his body visibly shaking with stress and after quickly declining the offer of hanging out at a bar in the centre of London; he rushed through the door with no second breath.

Zayn was nervous as he walked home, his heart pounding loudly in his ear drums, feeling as though someone was following him all he found when he turned around was his shadow. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to walk alone with his thoughts but he had already declined the offer of going down to a bar with Niall and Josh, plus Harry was probably waiting for him at home.

Thinking of Harry, Zayn internally shivered at the thought of his little brother running wild with a gun; with how depressed he was becoming the first person he’d shoot would probably be himself. Not like the usual teens his age, he’d sit by that peeling windowsill and write his journal, or simply blast his brain with music as he lay on his bed, there were no parties or girls, just him and his haunted feelings between two walls.

 Zayn had to admit his brother frightened him sometimes, never violently though it was just his simple thought processes and how he acted, he was too pure and too innocent to live in such an ugly world. Green eyes blown wide as he was pounded by fists, tears welling up in his eyes and dripping only when the enemy had escaped, he’d been blamed for something that was out of his control, his phonebook containing Zayn and Nick an estranged friend who only blossomed with Harry because of their strangeness.

But he was wise, and Zayn had all the faith in the world that Harry would become a good man in the future, he’d have children and his current loneliness would diminish into sweet candy to feed the souls he’d bring up.

 Zayn on the other hand, had no plans for the future, maybe he’d become an artist and paint the tears and blood he’d shed or a poet who sang lies from a stone heart, because a poet only loves once and when they’re gone, their hearts are carried along too.

 Harry was as usual writing, there was also an overpowering perfume floating through the air and causing Zayn to choke, but as he entered the bathroom the strong scent of bile rose into the and Zayn gagged. After questioning Harry, he came to the conclusion that their Father had been drinking the bottle of cognac that lay smashed against the front door before puking afore going M.I.A.

“Whatch’a writing” Zayn asked intriguingly as he walked past the bedroom door, stripping off his shirt after he had just bleached the bathroom, Harry shrugged and tapped the pen against his bottom lip. Zayn sighed, deciding against trying the bombard through the concrete walls of Harry’s mind, choosing to have a quick cig in his bedroom instead. But as he was halfway through the stick, Harry appeared at the door, leaning against it casually.

“It’s about a boy who lives with his uncle before he finds out he’s an infamous wizard and travelling to a 1000 year old school with a grey bearded headmaster” he suddenly interjects after watching his brother puff through the cigarette tossing it carelessly out the window, he flips him the middle finger before throwing the duvet over his face with a sarcastic smile, that may just give Harry an ounce of sudden happiness making his emerald eyes glow before fading into its usual empty jungle green. That sarcastic slightly immature aspect comes in handy sometimes, he can tease Zayn and joke around but in the end his personality is as austere as anyone’s.

“G’night Zayn” Harry mutters to thin air as he stares out the window across the road to the neighbour’s house, you can see the shadows moving intimately in the window and the couple share a loving embrace and Harry  feels a tug in his heart; he wants some sort of love to warm his frozen body.

At midnight the alarm blares and Harry wakes up disorientated and his fists smash against his bedside table as he tries to shut the damn thing off, to no avail, as the buzzing piece of contraband is in his brothers bedroom and he’s too lazy to shout so he simply drapes the covers over himself and falls asleep.

At 1am Harry is again woken, but this time to the sound of shouting and crashing, Harry quickly jumps to his feet, noticing for the first time he’s still dressed in those skinny jeans which now feel quite itchy. Zayn’s shouting at his father, who’s drunkenly smashing bottles against the windowsill in retaliation about an argument Harry can only guess is about him, but he doesn’t intervene. Instead when he hears approaching footsteps, and Zayn trying to pull his father back, he doesn’t hesitate to jump over the bed and cower into the wardrobe, his heart pounding fiercely in his throat.

Zayn struggles to pull back his Father, who’s thrashing about trying to wrench off the strong hold his eldest son’s got on his neck, choking slightly. A bottle of the tequila he was holding smashes to the floor but he twists around quickly hoping to knock Zayn off and fling him into the wall, but he loses his footing crashing face forward into Harry’s room.

Zayn scrambles up onto his back, and picks up a shard of glass that lay broken on the floor, the anger bubbling uncontrollably in his stomach. _Just fucking stab the bastard._ But he couldn’t, even though his father was an abuser, a disgusting creature, he couldn’t do it.

Sobbing to himself, that shard of glass was crushed between his palm causing a sharp pain and droplets of blood to dribble onto the floor, his father was out cold but he recoiled into the corner out of fright, he couldn’t be strong anymore.

Harry heard a crashing, and cowered into the corner of the small closet, the air was heavy and he found it hard to breath but leaning his head against the wooden surface soothing his hammering temples, and he couldn’t think of a suitable reason to exit. When Zayn opened the door, his eyes tightly closed at the unwanted light so he couldn’t see the look of despair, the glassy and hard brown eyes and the clenched bloody fists.

“We’re going” Zayn muttered under his breathe, as Harry cautiously stepped out of the closet noticing his father unconscious on the floor he coiled up into himself, but shaking away that fear he looked over at his brother pacing the floor in thought. Fumbling with his fingers a few minutes later, his father lurched but Zayn ignored the flailing body choosing instead to mumble randomly under his breath and pack a few bags messily, he didn’t ask Harry for help only throwing his whole life into the bags.

 Harry didn’t know what to do, rarely had he been scared of Zayn but whenever his mouth opened it was clamped shut immediately because this Zayn was totally fucked. His hands were dragging messily through his raven hair, his eyes were red-rimmed with tears and his movements slightly jittery as he piled clothes into bags, before counting through endless stacks of money that were under the floorboards. When he finished and Harry had nibbled through his finger, a metallic taste filling into his mouth his green eyes glued to his father on the floor.

“Where?” he finally questioned quietly once Zayn had counted cigarettes, small bags of marijuana and brown paper bags filled with substances that Harry didn’t want to know about. Zayn ignored the question, as he threw a large shoulder bag at Harry’s bare feet and stumbled into his own room leaving Harry alone with his slowly awakening father. Pulling on some ratty converse, he also pulled on an old hoodie and clambered over his father who was now snoring drunkenly on Harry’s grubby maroon carpet.

Zayn saw Harry by the door, that large bag thrown over his shoulder, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, his shoes untied and muddy and his hair unruly, and couldn’t help but smile shyly. Standing up, he pulled up that bag of his own, and looked around at his own bedroom, the dark black walls, the messy homework piled onto his excuse of a chipped wooden desk and his small single bed cramped in the corned by the windowsill with tens of stubs of cigarettes in the corner. Playing with the hem of the leather jacket for a few seconds, his black military boots tapping against the cheap hardwood flooring he told Harry to quickly rifle through the fridge downstairs and meet him outside.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but listened anyway. Zayn waited until he could hear the kitchen light switch, before swiftly exiting his own room and standing at the entrance of Harry’s, his eyes travelling to inspect his drunken father. His greasy black hair, those dark bags beneath his eyes along with the deep set wrinkles indented in his forehead, and that current stench of sweat and alcohol sticking to his body. Zayn didn’t say anything, just nudged his shoulder and leaving with a silent goodbye.

Harry was outside, sipping from a can of unbranded soda, in his hands were a few packets of crisps and some dairy milk bars he had obviously hidden for himself. He looked up at Zayn with a blank face, not really knowing how to react to the whole situation; he opened his mouth once again to question what was going on but closed it again looking rather like a gormless fish which caused Zayn to let out a small chuckle.

“So what’re we doing?” Harry asked finally, as they walked through the estate licking the excess of salt off his fingers after a packet of crisps his eyebrows raised, and his eyes gleaming with an interest that Zayn had not seen since they were swinging through the jungle of a garden when they were children.

 

“We’re staying with a friend” he said simply, pulling a bar of chocolate from Harry’s fingers who pouted but didn’t complain only shifting the shoulder bag on his back and digging his hands into the pockets of his black skinny jeans. Zayn knew that Harry wouldn’t be comfortable at Louis’ because of how unexpected and slightly delusional the bloke could be, but he didn’t really feel like dealing with a crazy peter pan at the moment either.

To be brutally honest Zayn didn’t know where the hell he was going, but they carried on walking, passing several convenience stores and rowdy bars with drunken teenagers flailing about on the pavement, Harry stared slightly too long at the group of girls he recognised from school before opting to look at his mucky trainers shuffling along instead.

Zayn knew the boy wasn’t very confident and had never really interacted with girls never mind having a girlfriend, but Zayn had. Perrie was a nice girl, her hair was a wild lilac colour and there were always wacky crowns of daisies placed between the wavy locks, they’d met at some random house party and clicked instantly but Harry had always been awkward around her whenever she came round to their house or at school pressed between Zayn’s body and his locker.

 

Eventually they’d drifted apart but she was still a wild one, dancing crazily on tables and throwing back shots like there was no tomorrow, it wasn’t a bitter relationship, they were just together for fun more than anything and the only time they’d gotten emotionally close was when he’d driven his father’s shitty Toyota up onto a hill; they lay on the roof sharing a smoke, and sipping from some bottle of cola and vodka. They talked dreams, memories and basically any random shit that seemed to be floating through their brains at that instant.

Perrie had wanted to move into the centre of London, and even though she was born in South Shields and carried that strong Geordie accent she wanted to live with her best friend Leigh-Anne, and hopefully finish sixth form and go to university and study Drama and Music. She had plans for the future and even though she was crazy, hippie and constantly daydreaming, she wanted to get married to a decent man and have a set of twin girls she’d call them Poppy and Lavender but she promised Zayn as he braided her lilac hair with his fingers that if she ever had a boy he’d be called Zee after him. He smiled at this gesture, and as requested drove her home to the edge of her estate where she lived with her elder brother in a flat, and as she kissed his cheek, he knew that’s the last he’d ever see of Perrie Edwards but he didn’t mind their relationship was fun, and it wasn’t meant to last.

Other than Perrie all other girls were flings, but he once remembered having a stupid crush on his music teacher Mrs Ferguson when he was in Year Ten, it didn’t last very long and mainly consisted of long glances and Zayn’s ridiculously horrendous attempt at flirting. After that Zayn’s been relatively wary of most girls, not really sticking around too long, and it built up a reputation of sorts which didn’t stop him from pulling at parties it actually brought more girls along growling for attention and pawing pathetically. Perrie wasn’t in town anymore, she left sixth form last year with a little post-stick note on Zayn’s locker consisting of a phone number and a simple goodbye, other than that she was gone with the wind.

Harry on the other hand didn’t want any attention from women, they were always prodding like giggling children at his dimples, screeching loudly in the common room about his cute curls or how his brother was an ostentatious asshole and they needed someone young and innocent to train up, sort of like a puppy. So to conclude, Harry had a pretty shitty record when it came to girls, they were scary more than anything else.

As they walked past the raving bars, and the smashed girls puking into grids and the scent of sweat, alcohol and smoke overheating the place to claustrophobes. Zayn pulled on Harry’s wrist dragging him through a small alleyway behind the bar up to the outskirts of the estate where there actually lay some somewhat decently sized houses.

“Where are we going?” Harry couldn’t help but mutter, he didn’t know where they were and it was far from where they lived and from where Nick lived in the large concrete apartments, it was sort of out of his comfort zone. Zayn stopped outside a door labelled with two bronze numbers labelled slightly lopsidedly, 14. With a harsh knock, he let go of Harry’s wrist and turned to him about to say something but Harry was distracted by the voice vibrating through the house.

Niall was upstairs killing Josh while playing Call of Duty, but his phone rang and while Josh was giggling along with his girlfriend, Niall took a sip of the beer balanced between a cushion and decided to thrash him at his own game, but a knock at the door interrupted them.

“Fuck this” Niall muttered as he threw the controller against the bed, turning to look at Josh who nudged him with his bare foot and a raise of his eyebrows. He really hoped it wasn’t Louis with another job because he was pretty excited with this new job offered up by Tom and Louis would only be a distraction to his real ambition. Rolling his eyes as Josh carried on talking with a sickly sweet tone that only got louder; he slipped of the bed and slid down the banister with a chuckle as he fell on his ass at the last step. Opening the door he thought he’d come face to face with Mrs Devine carrying some shopping bags, or even Georgia from next door who was always bothering them at random hours with random requests, but not Zayn and the curly-haired boy who’d been plaguing his mind for the past few days.

Harry didn’t expect this at all, but the smirk that accompanied his bright purple fringe was full of bright eyes and his pink tongue peeking through his teeth as the Irish brought his hand forward to strongly clasp against his brothers, and Harry was embarrassed to admit he was pretty speechless.

“Yo Malik, what’re you doing here?” Niall smirked, his glazed over look not moving from where he was inspecting Harry jaw dropped expression, his hands were digging deep into his pockets as he averted his eyes from the alarmingly blue ones of Niall, and didn’t notice the look of slight smugness that crossed the others. Zayn was oblivious to the stiff body language of his brother, and just shook Niall’s hand with the same strength, pulling their clasped hands together so he could place a friendly clap on his back.

“Can I come in? Is Josh in?” Zayn questioned, walking past Niall into the house and blatantly ignoring whatever reply he was to get in return, Harry stood at the doorway unsure of what exactly to do.

“Whose this little man” Niall said in a slightly intimidating tone over at Harry, taking the mickey out of Harry in front of his face that _goddamn smirk_ still plastering his face and in silent retaliation Harry flashed his harshest glare which only caused Niall to crack up inside. Zayn turned round to face Niall, and gave Harry a small gesture telling him it was okay to come in.

Niall had now moved over to the stairs, one hand flicking his hair into a quiff which almost instantly collapsed against his forehead once he removed his fingers, some strands sticking up precariously due to static, the other hand on the banister where he rested his chin with an obnoxious smile.

“Oh this is Harry, my little brother” Zayn said looking upstairs instantly when Josh appeared, his body language was a little taut, but there relationship had definitely had changed since they had met Tom. Easy banter flowed between the two boys, Niall gripping Josh into a quick headlock to ruffle his hair while telling Zayn about how he missed out a great rave at a bar the other night, but that Tom needed them to meet up again next week.

Harry stood awkwardly at the door, shuffling his feet and when rain started splashing against the door and dripping into the house, Josh threw him an incredulous look, knocking past Niall in his attempt to shut the door, and Harry knew he had been recognised by the sharp look shot into him like a bullet. Over some rather shitty beers, Zayn began to relax and was easing up his normally rigid personality and began to enjoy himself, it was a side to him that Harry had not seen for a while.

“So why’re you here” Niall asked for what seemed to be the hundredth time that night, knocking back another sip of some disgustingly shitty beer. They were all crowded in Josh’s bedroom for the night, Harry’s head leant back against Zayn’s thigh who was lying across the bed his mouth occupied by a blunt that leeched its suffocating smoke into the air. He was giggling, _fucking giggling,_ and it was weird to see him interacting this way, and Harry felt pretty left out.

Niall was laying with his head in Josh’s lap currently thrashing him at Mario Kart; he was already drunk off the crappy beer, while Josh was playing rather half-heartedly whilst listening to Zayn ramble on about Pikachu in Pokémon, and how he really wanted to read The Idiot by Dostoyevsky, but obviously not the English translation.

"Donkey Kong you absolute asshole, why won’t you win for me” Niall shouts at the screen not removing his head from Josh’s lap jutting out his bottom lip instead when he realises that his beer has finished.

“Joshie” Niall begs like a small child, elongating the word for emphasis and widening his baby blue eyes, and nothing else is said between the two as Josh sighs and slips of the bed, ruffling Zayn’s collapsed quiff, which would normally gain them a sharp smack but Zayn was too out of it to notice, white tendrils floating from the blunt between his fingers as he puffed through the addicting drug.

Harry sniggers as Niall carries on playing, and Zayn starts up another conversation with the poster of Led Zeppelin stuck on the wall beside him. “So, we should hang out you know. You’ve got funky hair” he slurs, a lazy grin drawn on his face, a beer bottle cradled in his lap, the condensation leaking down the side of the bottle and making Harry realise his dry throat. 

Harry was left to his conscious, Niall passed out on Josh’s shoulder after a few too many beers, Zayn snoring softly on the end of the bed his lips pursed cutely whilst Josh was flying across the keypad of his worn Blackberry. Deep purple bruises were still littered up his arms, like the stars in the sky they were dead memories, digging his blunt fingers between them he hissed at the sensation but carried on the pain soothing the throbbing tainted memory of his father. Sleep was impossible, and not only because his back was tender from leaning against the wooden bedframe or because Zayn’s breathy snores were bubbling his ear but because every time the thought crossed his mind all he could imagine was his Father’s large shadow standing imposingly in the doorway.

 

Eventually morning came around, Niall groaning in pleasure at a cup of strong black coffee almost inhaling the steamy liquid from its chipped mug. Unsurprisingly Zayn forced Harry to don the crinkled uniform of his high school, and walked beside Niall who was smoking a spliff which Josh pulled from his lips every few puffs; he was shoved unceremoniously through the wrought iron gates of his school, and left to his own devices.

School was as usual an utter bore to Harry, the bells ringing like clockwork after every class and students crowing loudly in the hallways, girls giggling in the common rooms and boys hastily stubbing out cigarettes when someone called ‘Teacher Alert’. Harry shuffled from his art lesson, a yawn stuck in his throat, and beside him appeared a senior, slightly smaller than himself but with dark and brooding eyes and knitted expressive eyebrows, he was quite good looking.

“Harry Malik?” he asks, the words rolling of his tongue like hot fudge, and Harry steadied himself against the metal lockers watching the way the boy coats his thin lips in a string of saliva, leaving them glistening and its slightly more interesting than to look into the chocolate pool of his eyes. Harry nods quickly, the books in his shoulder bag digging into the inside of his thighs, but that doesn’t really matter right now.

“I’m Justin” he introduces, a hand being thrust into is direction and Harry shakes it quickly in greeting, unsure of why the boy had approached him in the first place. “Zayn promised me some stuff” he whispered leaning uncomfortably close to Harry, who gulped at the close contact. Justin pulled back smirking, placing a hand on the left of Harry blocking his escape, smugly he thought about how the boy’s eyes were glazing with insecurities, before they averted to his scruffy converse.

“I’ll erm I’ll have to get back to you on that” he stuttered out, with pauses and intakes of breaths which made Justin feel a small ball of guilt in the bottom of his stomach which was brushed aside when he heard a call of his name from the other side of the hallway.

“Jay, Tommy says he’s got something” The boy shouted, he looked quite young around 13 his shaggy brown hair was in immediate need of a radical haircut, and he donned bright blue braces as he looked over at Justin with bright, heeding eyes as if a slave to a manipulative master. Harry immediately grew a dislike to the slightly shorter boy in front of him, who sent a quick nod over at the puppy-like boy impatiently waiting with bright blue eyes.

Justin leant closer once again, his minty breath caressing Harry’s face as he twisted his head to lie against the cold metal locker away from the sneering look on the brown eyed boys face. “Look, tell your brother I want my shit tomorrow, or else” he spat, and with a final gleaming sadistic grin he pulled away.

Harry’s heart didn’t stop beating twice fast until he was walking out of school at 4:00pm, as he childishly swung his feet back and forth over the brick ledge in front of his school, a black Camaro parked in front of him and the bass of ‘Smells like Teenage Spirit’ by Nirvana pumped through the car. Harry just eyed the car warily for a few seconds, thinking about how the song was a particular favourite of his before the blacked out windows rolled down.

“Hey buddy” Niall shouted in greeting to Harry, his purple tipped hair was up into a perfect quiff and his sapphire eyes were covered up by black ray bans, Harry shot him a questioning look before hopping into the passenger seat. “Where’s Zayn?” he asked peering into the back seats, seeing that they were filled with bags labelled with expensive designer names he’d only ever come across when Zayn had stolen merchandise from a warehouse when he was pissed out one night with Louis. Niall didn’t reply, instead rolled down the windows so a light spring breeze burst through and turned up the music to an ear-splitting, pulsating in you veins volume. Harry then loosened his collar and decided to relax into the car, letting the draft blow over his face leaving him slightly red-faced and refreshed whilst Niall sped up on the motorway going who knows where whilst screaming the classic Nirvana song at the top of his lungs; even though his voice was raw and raspy, his face frozen against the harsh wind Harry had honestly never had as much fun in his life.

They ended up on a small embankment, overgrown grass surrounding the polished black car like a diamond floating in murky waters, the mud was squelching beneath the tires as Niall moved the car humming Smoke on the Water  beneath his breath, his hair now flattened and his face painted red, those Ray bans placed on top of his head. Harry had removed his blazer which was now in a heap in the backseat, that disgusting maroon coloured tie loose around his neck and his green eyes bright with life as he looked over at the weed filled embankment not asking the burning question on his mind. _Where the fuck are we? And why am I with you?_

Niall huffed out a breath after he’d successfully parked the car, leaning back into the car and taking a look over at the 15 year old, who was grinning wildly, his curly hair messy against his forehead and his leg bouncing up and down in pure anticipation. Niall snickered at his expression, he was like an open book one minute the next minute mute and reserved but Niall didn’t mind he was the same when he was growing up, mistrusting and wary of those around him.

Harry looked over at him, his smile becoming slightly smaller out of embarrassment, and looked over at how well Niall dressed, with dark skinny black jeans, a black rolling stones tee and black converse; he tipped back into his seat into his seat before Niall jumped out of the car in one swift motion and shouted at the top of his voice. “Dude you gotta get out here!” he demanded in that Irish slur of his which Harry was starting to like, maybe behind the black eyeliner rimming his eyes and that damning smirk there was an endearing person.

Harry gulped down a quick breath, before stepping out of the car surprised at how the solid the ground was, the grass tickled his palms as he walked to where there was a silhouette was sitting cross legged  amongst the tall grass staring upon the unimaginably large moon in the darkened sky.

Harry smiled; it was easier in the darkness around them as he sat on the cold ground beside Niall who was unusually quiet in the wilderness, his breathing was even and the way his eyebrows were relaxed, his eyes light blue and unemotional like he was thoughtless, just lying there and breathing; living.

After a silent few minutes, their breathes clouding the air as the breeze slowly became cooler, they lay back against the grass, arms slotted comfortably behind their head as they stared up at the glorious moon, the shadow casting a glowing light over their bodies making them shine like powdered glitter.

“She’s beautiful. Isn’t she?” Niall whispered, his blue eyes gazing up at the glowing moon with wide child-like blue eyes as if it was the most enchanting creature in the world, Harry hummed in response but the simple gesture of agreement brought a shy smile to Niall’s face, it wasn’t a smirk nor a sneer it was a genuine calm smile of happiness.

“Can I tell you a story?” he questioned his gleaming face turning to look over at Harry who was weaving together strands of grass _I want to be a punk rocker with flowers in my hair._ That crown of weedy grass and dying daisies would have been ugly any other way, but amongst the curly bundle of his dark brown hair it almost became beautiful. Cracking that smile as he lay back down those cute dimples making an appearance, he nodded, and even though the grass was dry, the mud slightly wet and hard beneath his body it felt as though he was floating; the moon shining bright on their faces and highlighting such features as the golden roots of Niall’s hair and the jade green of Harry’s eyes.

“The sun loved the moon so much that he died every night so she could breathe” Niall sighed, and Harry was speechless because if it wasn’t cliché then he didn’t know what was; but it was simple, beautiful and true because Niall wasn’t this hard, tough emo, he was easy-going and artistic but he was obviously hiding something. Defying stereotypes by acting like he doesn’t care but he really does, he has no heart of gold because it’s tarnished with disturbing memories and he was similar like Harry in this way. But he now felt slightly insecure because he had just revealed himself and even though Josh was his best friend he had never let his guard down in front of him, he’d always acted differently like he was a teen rebel which he was but he had struggles, suicidal thoughts and poetic phases.

Almost as if he was cowering into a shadow, he slithered up from the grass leaving Harry laying there gazing upon the moon like a possessed child, his face relaxed and eyes dancing like pure sunshine, because he was like everyone else beneath the bruises, just needed to get away every once in a while even if it was a ditch in the middle of nowhere with a bundle of daisy chains. Niall sat in the car, leaning back against the cool leather seat that once relaxed posture becoming tense a dying scream caught in his throat as he looked over at Harry in the grass; his chin resting on his knees, that daisy crown in his hair, the moon creating a beautiful curvature on his sharp jaw, the dark bruises visible on his arm where the material of his wrinkled school shirt was rolled and it was okay, everything was okay because he’d given his trust away without even knowing.

That night Niall sat by his window, he wasn’t thinking just watching because by thinking the hidden anger built up inside his chest would burst, and he would go numb as he let it rip through. Harry was curled up on a bundle of cushions, and old blankets on the floor, the rain droplets tapping an unknown rhythm against the glass, he watched each little droplet race against each other until they reached the sill.

The lightening that shot through the clouds momentarily lit up the room, and he noticed the small strands of grass tangled up in Harry’s hair, that crown of flowers sitting on the bedside table. He had known he would expect questions from his unsuspecting parents when they found him here in the morning, their townhouse in London was their main occupence, and Niall was uninvited, but the spare key he had found in his glove box was calling him as he drove through the foggy roads of London, Harry asleep in the passenger seat.

The bedroom was different than he had remembered, there used to posters of The Eagles and Rolling Stones above his bed, along with a desk messy with school work and random sheets of lyrics, his guitar would be on a stand in the corner of the room and the walls were a dark navy blue covered in gashes from mood swings, and the average temperaments of a controlled teenage boy. The hardwood flooring would be covered in clothes, the walls beside the large open window dotted with burns from experimentation with his brother’s cigarettes when he was 12, but it was different. His parents was washed out his whole existence, the walls were an off white, the desk had been replaced with a large cream vanity table, and where his once treasured battered acoustic guitar lay there was now a golden upholstered chaise longue.

Smirking bitterly he hoped his parents were driving along the avenue in their affluent Roll Royce, with bottles of expensive champagne grasped between their clumsy fingers. He rooted through his bag, pulling out a baggie full of weed and lighting up a blunt before taking a long suck of the substance letting that familiar feeling hit through his lungs and come up through his mouth in practiced puffs. Pulling out his can of paint spray he shook the bottle of black listening to the liquid slosh about, he didn’t think about what he was going to graffiti and that his snobby parents would probably call the police on their abandoned teenage son. Flicking his wrist in expertise, he let his mind take control until all he could feel was the adrenaline rush of getting caught, all he could see where the colours spraying out onto the white wall damaging the expensive wallpaper as he bounced upon the double bed letting his muddy converse ruin the plush bed spread.

When he was done, his fingers grubby, paint can empty and his mind buzzing on a lovely high he collapsed against the bed , kicking the sheets about as to get in a relaxed position on the too comfortable bed. His eyes fluttered closed as he took one last look at his masterpiece on the wall in all its glory, enlightened by the storm in the background, a simple but effective _Fuck You x._

Drowsily he awoke to a harsh shaking of shoulders, and Harry’s wide frightened green eyes, he only groggily turned around and ignored Harry who could hear someone treading up the stairs. Harry froze momentarily as the footsteps walked past the door and quietened as the tread down the hallway. “Niall, Niall get up! Their home, the people’s house we broke into last night. We gotta go” he screeched into his ear, Niall laughed bitterly and stretched on the bed, getting into an upright position against the bedframe that familiar smirk  appearing as he looked over at the damage on the wall, Harry’s gasp beside him making him chuckle.

“Relax dude” he laughed, grabbing the woven grass crown from the bedside table and plopping it onto his bedhead mass of curls, and softly shoving Harry down so he sat on the pile of plush pillows and wrinkled bed sheets he slept on last night. Harry stuttered and flailed slightly when he heard the footsteps again approach, and the call of ‘Maura did you iron my shirt?”

“Fucking iron it yourself you bastard” Niall whispered as he yawned and flipped out his phone proceeding to play Candy Crush, his Irish accent becoming gruffer when he swore, but Harry was too bewildered to think about anything else. They’d broken into someone’s house last night, Niall had spray-painted the wall and they were now just sat here listening to them chatting, he was scared shitless, he’s never done anything like this before even when being the little brother of a drug-dealer.

After playing through two rounds of the same level, Niall sat up and tossed the phone into his backpack before flipping it over his shoulder, and stepping over a nervous Harry to quickly sort out his quiff in the mirror. “C’mon let’s get some breakfast” Niall said, shooting a bewildered Harry a smile which was quite possibly manic, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything when he was pulled up, only grasping the hand that was held out to him.

They went down the stairs, Niall whistling some random tune while Harry just became completely numb and let himself be dragged down the stairs, Niall then leant over the banister and looked around the kitchen before calling out to the small woman in the corner, her greying hair up in a ponytail, her small stature pottering about in the kitchen. “Hiya Mum” he shouted, the women quickly turned and shrieked, dropping the pan she was holding, which fell with a clatter to the floor.

Niall shook his head with laughter, and made his way into the kitchen, the women frozen in her place as he looked through the cupboard before pulling out a packet of Oreos and waving them around in celebration at Harry who was gripping the banister as the women gave him the deadliest blue eyed glare he had ever seen.

Eventually when Niall had munched through the packet of Oreos and thrown a packet over to Harry who fumbled with the cookies, deciding to instead stuff them into his blazer pocket. He looked between Niall with a bitter smirk on his face, and his mother who wore a shocked and slightly disgusted look, because Niall was playing around with his parents, he’d broken into their rather expensive townhouse and defaced a bedroom with spray-paints during the night, there was some hidden agenda here.

“Niall, what… what are you doing?” Maura exclaimed over to her son who had hoisted himself onto the kitchen counter and was removing his smudged black eyeliner with her expensive Egyptian cotton kitchen towel. Niall let out a sarcastic, smouldering laugh in return before hopping up of the counter and leaving his mother speechless as he grabbed hold of the curly haired boy’s wrist and pulled him through the kitchen and out the backdoor.

“The car’s round the corner” Niall said, fumbling through his jean pockets for the key. “Here you go, meet me there. Yeah?” Harry nodded quickly, and clasped the keys between his fingers before dazedly walking down the driveway where parked up was an expensive Rolls Royce, and a black polished Harley Davidson. Harry had never been interested in theft before, but the bike was a masterpiece, he could already imagine the wind through his hair, the blaring sirens of police behind him and the pure thrill of exhilaration whenever he accelerated.

After snapping a few photos with his mind, inspecting the glossy exhaust pipe and the silver disk of the front brakes, he found himself pumped to hop on the beautiful machine and drive off into the sunset.

 After the shattering of a plate, and Niall’s loud guffaw, he came bounding through the house but before he left he gave a salute to his red-faced mother.

“Run you bastard” Niall cried over to Harry, as he ran down the steps, colliding with Harry and grasping his elbow as he pulled him down the street his booming laughter disturbing the serene area, where the lawns were neatly cut, housewife’s kissed goodbye to working husbands and waved daintily to neighbours as if they were friends, and not judging them with piercing eyes over the large hedges.

When they reached the car, Niall was red-faced and sobbing with laughter as he remembered the look on his Mother’s face, whilst Harry was still thinking about the bike sat in the driveway, was it Niall’s or was it his Father’s.

The drive through London and into the estate was fairly quiet, Niall jingling through the keys he had ransacked from his Father’s study and bobbing his head to a classic Radiohead song on his stereo.

“Saw you eyeing Greg’s bike” Niall said, and when Harry stiffened in the seat, the blond boy shot him a stern look before one again breaking out in infectious laughter, which left Harry bewildered in the burning leather seat. “Yeah, it’s nice” Harry coughed awkwardly not wanting to reveal how truly interested he was in the machine, Niall rolled his eyes at this comment, stretching across Harry in the passenger seat to root through the glove box where he pulled out a crumpled back of crisps.

“S’nice my ass, it’s a beauty and it’s all mine” Niall said, speeding up on the motorway and overtaking a red Porsche with a bitter sweet laugh, before lighting a cigarette expertly, taking a long puff whilst Harry watched the white tendrils come out in small circles. He noticed how Niall’s whole posture became relaxed, and his foot pressed slightly fiercer against the accelerator as they sped up to over 100mph, the wind coming through the rolled down window burning Harry’s face as it whipped through the car.

 Niall laughed, a cold bitter psychotic laugh, swerving the car to the left at the last minute on a junction, as if high on nicotine and pure power, Hysteria by Muse was coincidentally playing reverberatingly through the speaker, and Harry cried, cried with the sensation of the booming bass of the guitar up through his body. No one had ever made him feel so safe but on edge at the same time, like standing on the brink of a cliff with the wind whispering around you _jump, jump, jump_ , pushing you closer to the lashing waves below, the murky water cold and uninviting but you’re like lava, fiery and hot, so when your plunged in your numb so there’s no icy backlash, its warm and subtle and you feel homely.

You’re like a ship sailing the sea for the first time, when your first let out of the docks your full of naivety thinking life’s smooth sailing, it’s all in the same direction with the beautiful sunset in the distance guiding you through your journey. But it’s not, the waves are cold and lashing, the stars are hidden by grey clouds and the suns blinding, your vessel gains splintered which slowly turn to cracks. Larger vessels loom over you, intimidating and only lessening your naivety, it slowly disappears as you realise that life isn’t all smooth sailing, the stars that guide you disappear beneath mists, and the suns energy is almost too bright, its blinding.

Niall’s a dark ship, impending at first but his gashes appear, the cracks and splintered wood is seen from previous journeys but he powers against the harsh salt sprays and lashing waves, turning to a fish that weaves through the sea like a needle to silk defying what is right, not sailing but swimming, taking those risks to reach the bright sunset.

Zayn was pretty subdued about the whole thing; and although Harry imagined him to be pretty angry at the blond boy, he simply sat on the couch rolling cigarettes, and humming along to Niall’s tale of how they ransacked his parents’ home. Josh was as his usual needy, needy, needy with Niall, pulling him up the stairs and onto his tatty bed to get high whilst Harry sat rather tensely next to Zayn on the old suede couch, watching his expertly long fingers roll the tobacco. Niall didn’t seem to notice Zayn’s furrowing eyebrows or plain expression whilst he talked about his _fucking idiotic mother_ and his _posh, snobby Father_ but Harry noticed, Harry always noticed. The night ended as it usually did, Josh and Niall in an inattentive state, listening to banging rock music, Zayn flicking through the channels whilst Harry sat beside him on the sofa, unable to get comfortable in the homely environment, having another bad night, that glossy bike popping up every now and then.

The muffins dry, and Niall contemplates momentarily throwing it away but his stomachs gnawing, and he wants to curb his dry throat with milk, and well, chocolate muffins always make milk taste better. Zayn had once again disappeared that morning, as he did the day before but Harry doesn’t know that, more like shouldn’t, but he’s gone, and Harry’s oblivious to his departure as he chews soggy cornflakes in the living room. Josh is upstairs, snoring, and Niall couldn’t help but swipe a sharpie from the bedside drawer and draw on a fake moustache before uploading the picture to Facebook, _he’s a lazy fucker anyway._ Harry comes in, and surprisingly he’s smiling for once, and Niall doesn’t miss the glistening of his eyes, the flash of white teeth and the dimples, conversation is rather slow as that’s how everything is around Harry, _Where’s Zayn? How’s Josh? Did you get high last night?_

“You’re from Ireland right? Where exactly in Ireland” Harry asks as he watches Niall toss the crumpled muffin casing unsuccessfully into the bin, cursing when it bounces of the edge and falls to the side. As he comes back, he nods hastily taking a sip from his mug of warm milk, creating a small fuzz above his upper lip which he swipes clean with a lick of his tongue.

“Mullingar” He states simply, and by the way his body clenches and his eyebrows furrow into a brash line above the cerulean sea ovals, Harry knows not to ask any more questions, and although he is interested, the guilt would be too much. Niall’s already given away too much anyway, he saw it that night while they were in the ditch, Niall wasn’t tense or cocky, he was relaxed, maybe drunkenly relaxed, but he talked with ease and his laughter wasn’t covering up every sentence, but it was better.

Niall left the room when Josh appeared, which was slightly odd because there was now an awkward air hanging between a hung over Josh leaning against the counter and mumbling about a headache, and Harry playing with the peeling skin on his thumb as he rocked back on forth on the rickety kitchen chairs. Harry had the mind to ask where his elder brother was, but to be truthfully honest he couldn’t really find the time to care, Zayn had changed, possibly because of a girl but he was more relaxed nowadays and if Harry tried to stop the inevitable then things would go wrong. Suddenly he was hit with the thought of Justin from yesterday, and whatever _shit_ he wanted. He knew what it was obviously, and a few rolled up spliffs he could easily get off Nick, or even Niall for that matter as they were always getting high on Josh’s navy bed sheets, but if it was something else then he’d need to get Zayn.

Never before had he felt nervous about ringing Zayn, but maybe he was intruding because the more Zayn seemed to change, the more he was disconnecting himself from Harry, and maybe it was always Harry who had been the reason for his attitude.  But Harry couldn’t lie when he said that he didn’t really _know_ Zayn, they spent relatively little time together actually talking, and the awkwardness between the two could have easily been spotted.

They helped each other, but it wasn’t a regular brotherly relationship, because sure Zayn was protective but he was not like a best friend, and even the fact that they were blood related wouldn’t have changed that. Niall was different though, he had showed Harry who he truly was, something Zayn had never done, he was always so secretive about things and with Louis, Harry didn’t have a clue what was really going on. The more he thought about it, the more he believed that maybe he didn’t need Zayn, he didn’t need protecting anymore, things were different now, he could do his own thing from now on, and Zayn couldn’t say anything to him.

When they were children though, it was different as Harry actually looked up to his brother, the strength in his eyes as he stared down their father, and his smile with a hint of tongue and teeth, but he grew up and changed not necessarily leaving Harry, but leaving him all the same, his mind was always elsewhere and is was difficult for them to interact, and although he’d never admit this, Zayn was probably sick of Harry.

 Sick of protecting him, and sick of always having to be there as if he’s tied down but no; because Harry could just leave, and although those ocean eyes were slowly becoming home, Harry was sure he could find somewhere else to go. Niall, he’d probably miss Niall, over these past few days his cocky approach, glinting blue gems and smirk kept Harry buzzing, never had he known friendship but maybe the buzzing excitement he felt in his stomach around Niall was just that. Even when he was flying high like a paper plane, his emotions heightened and answers dreamy whilst Harry was ever the pragmatist, their hate, but not quite love relationship always had Harry on edge.

Even when those blue eyes grew stormy, because Harry had already grown to notice these things, he knew not to push it because boundaries weren’t set yet and if this was how it was to carry on he didn’t want them to be created, he wanted that danger, that riskiness and maybe he would push it one day. Niall looked straight past his innocent outlook, his weak appearance and his dull eyes to see the dreamer Harry truly was, music seemed to flow swiftly through the silence and now more awkwardness occurred but it still did between him and the boy who’d raised him for 15 years. Harry would leave, he’d go, walk down the dusty yellow brick road of life to hopefully climb those golden stairs of heaven with a heavy heart, and he didn’t want baggage, but he would only if that baggage was a blue-eyed Irish boy.

Zayn sighs in frustration as the call goes through to the answering machine again, and to be perfectly honest he’s not really sure why he is ringing for the 45th time that morning, because if the idiot isn’t going to answer the bloody phone what’s the point?  To say Zayn doesn’t know what he is doing is an understatement, because when he found out that Tom was leading them on he didn’t have the time to get angry, and beat the guy up until the red rim of hid eyes disappeared because he had other things to do.

Louis is sat on a large suede sofa, his eyes bleary as he rolls spliffs on the armrest, occasionally looking up at the stage to applaud the rather awful band playing, because who the hell plays any Stevie Wonder in a stoner band. Zayn doesn’t know where he is , doesn’t know what he’s doing, and doesn’t know the point but he’s sort of happy listening to a rocky rendition of Isn’t she lovely but the riffs are all wrong and he’s then scowling.

Zayn’s moods are all over the place at the moment, and even though he’s grateful that Josh and Niall have let him crash at their place he needs an escape from everything, everyone, from Harry. The boy has done absolutely nothing wrong, in fact he’s done everything right but maybe he should just grow up since there’s nothing for him to be scared of any more.

Zayn brought him up, he’s proud that the boy isn’t completely off the rails but he’s far too quiet, far too mysterious and far too weird. Zayn would rather he spend the nights partying, getting high and catching girls with his slightly gaunt looks than sitting around and writing in that goddamn book of his, whilst staring with wide eyes at the stars.

Pulling the fag from his lips, he sees that Louis showing off with his puffing skills creating small circles with the smoke from his spliff whilst giggling rather childishly the column of his throat visible as he throws his head back, and there’s sweat there, it’s in the air, its rolling down everyone’s backs in the cloudy bar at 10am. Zayn drops his cigarette in his beer bottle, with has been sitting on the counter untouched for the last hour, because _what the fuck am I doing in a bar at 10am anyway?_ And he doesn’t have an answer.

Life is confusing, and he feels almost lighter, he’s soaring like a paper plane around a classroom as the random guitar chords flicker through the dusty speaker, people speech slurred around him because apparently people do get drunk at 10am. Louis is the only one there he knows but he decides to fucking get on with life and talk to people, half of them are part of the crappy bands groupie and the tattoos inspire Zayn to maybe add few more inks to his skin. A girl has got lilac hair and he can’t help but think about Perrie, they weren’t in love but maybe they were because he always finds that he’s thinking about her. Awkwardness appears when he fails to talk to a pretty red-head who eventually walks away, and he needs companionship of a real friend, but unfortunately only Louis is there.

There’s more clouding smoke outside but he doesn’t choke up at the smell anymore, it’s like home for him, the tendrils like come out in practiced puffs filtering through his nostrils and relaxing his muscles whilst exciting his addiction at the same time. It’s a contradiction all in one motion, but its home, it’s calming and warm and it’s just him, just an addiction. He doesn’t bother answering the calls that Louis sends his way because it’s all the same. _Where’d you go? Get the fuck back here! Zayn there’s a girl asking for you._ Louis’ full of lies but his bright, slightly manic personality can claw you back and Zayn’s left, sure he’s left but the chains are tied tightly to his chest and he’s never had the heart to pull them and escape the crazy world where Louis resigns.

Their relationship isn’t love, because Zayn’s never been in love because _what_ is love? Love is a feeling, well that’s already taken out the equation because Zayn doesn’t feel, he’s an artist of lives, he manipulates and uses before throwing it away. Breathing in peoples souls, he’s done that, he breathes until he’s out of breath, he captures them in his hands and drains them slowly, taking in their smile, their personality and their laughter before getting rid. But it’s hard with Harry because he drifts; he’s not limp in his arms, listening to his every command, it’s hard to take something that’s already taken.

Zayn’s never going to love Harry, and Harry knows that, Zayn knows it too, Harry’s personality is too strange but he’s not drugged or drunk, and even though Zayn’s always up in the clouds, Harry is in space floating away slowly. Niall is too, and that angers Zayn because he wants to look out for Harry but he can’t seem to find any energy and he’s exhausted. What’s the point flying if you’re never going to land, because although Zayn’s flying at 100mph he’s going to land soon, and everything’s going to halt, but Harry’s not.

Niall might be good for Harry, Zayn thinks, they shape together nicely and Josh isn’t the hands moulding the clay, and neither is he the fire ready to bake the finished product but rather a distraction to the artist creating a masterpiece. It angers him that he’s not the best influence on Harry, but the protectiveness is slowly dispersing and to be cruelly honest that is all he ever had, it was the glue holding them together but it’s now drying up.

Harry is ignoring Zayn out of habit when the boy returns home, if they can call it home, because Niall and Josh have basically let them crash here, so its home, for now at least. Zayn rifles through the cupboard, eventually picking through a packet of Nachos which he tosses over at Niall when the saltiness no longer quenches his hunger before deciding to go for a smoke outside. Harry is selfishly lapping at the attention from Niall, because Josh has gone, and no one knows where and Niall is just serving up endless bowls of water and it’s refreshing and cooling and Harry loves it. Even though they’re only playing video games, Harry is still noticing little quirks about Niall, his dark brown roots that are starting to show and his bright purple fringe sticky against his forehead whilst he beats Harry for what seems like the 100th time that night, because he’s not even trying.

Niall’s not fully satisfied with Josh anymore, sure they get high together and they have a laugh but maybe he needs more, just a little more, someone to talk to , someone more serious, maybe he does need Harry. Niall doesn’t have the guts though, because Harry knows too much already and it’s not a bad thing but it’s not good either.  Home, Niall doesn’t have one and he knows it but as he’s lazing about on the couch, with Harry cursing next to him about how he’s crap at the game, it sort of feels homely and maybe that’s what Niall needs, a home. Josh is laughter, and fun but then he’s not, he’s also jealousy and coldness, whilst Harry isn’t burning he’s warm enough and although he’s rather introvert he’s easy to talk to, relate to and Niall could just pour all his secrets into a bowl of Harry all day. Harry cares, and he listens and he’s everything you need in a friend and Niall’s sure that if he tried he could be fun, he could be a laugh but as long as he always warm like home, Niall’s not really going to mind.

With Josh gone who knows where and Zayn napping on the couch downstairs, Harry decides to finally let sleep take over as he curls into Niall on the bed, the duvet’s warm and it’s not big but its cuddly and exactly what Harry needs as he’s not really sure what’s going on anymore, but he falls into a peaceful, dreamless sleep anyway.

  Niall’s quiet, its 1am and he’s lay there with Harry’s bundle of apple smelling hair in his face, he’s snoring and his weight against Niall’s chest and he’s content, relaxed and happy, and its possibly not the best situation but he’s falling into this plunging friendship, this relationship, this connection and it’s like he ripped from NiallandJosh into NiallandHarry.

Suddenly they’re running from everything, from everyone. Niall’s happy because Josh was holding him down and creating this fake persona; Louis forced him into drugs and created an unwanted reputation and Zayn was just there. Harry’s guilty at first, sitting on the king sized bed in a 5 star hotel in the centre of London he looks up at Niall with these large pleading eyes, _Please take me home_ , but Niall doesn’t and the guilt fades quickly because it’s what he wants, what he really wants, so what has he got to be guilty for as he’s no longer a burden on Zayn’s shoulders.

 

They travel, and Harry’s finally free and happy and relaxed. He doesn’t freeze up at loud noises, his bruises have faded and slowly he begins to laugh more, but he’s still warm, listening and Harry. Harry never knew that Niall was so rich, but his father owns shares in an oil company and he has a trust fund even though his parents basically abandoned him, and it makes it slightly worse to see that they care, but don’t really care. Because they still want their presence known in his life, and he might have to owe them in the future but right now he’s just spending, and he’s trying not to give a shit but sometimes he breaks and Harry’s always there. Travelling comes to an end, and the sunny beaches on California and hotel room service turn to the bustling city of London where Niall’s apartment is glass and steel but the bed is warm, wide and fluffy and with the blazing fireplace, and cheesy romantic comedies and games nights turn into home.

 

Niall’s twenty one, and Harry’s eighteen and working as a barista in a café around the corner from Niall’s apartment, whose currently at university studying Biomedical Engineering at London Central, and when Harry found out how damn clever he was, he nearly laughed but he’s proud nonetheless. Harry’s happier than he could admit, he’s not flying anymore but he’s sat on cloud nine anyway so it doesn’t matter, and since he was 15 he’s changed, grown and become Harry Styles. When he had just turned 18 and applying for a drivers licence, he decided to change his last name to Styles after his mother and although he thought about Zayn every day, he wanted to change his name, a new beginning in a way. Niall didn’t question his decision, Niall never did, he was silent as usual ever the obedient friend. That’s what Harry likes about Niall, they have meaningful conversation whether they’re funny or serious, they never just talk, just to talk they know when quiet is a good thing.

The night goes as it usually does, Harry’s home at 5pm and Niall’s stuck in office his head buried in a book, and all Harry can see is blond. When they were in California for the second time, Niall came back to the hotel where Harry was unashamedly eating the hotel’s room service specifically the croissants and grapefruit juice, Niall was just blond and Harry loved it because every choice Niall makes is the right one, it always is. Harry laughed, and pulled the smaller boy closer as he ruffled his newly quiffed hair, and Niall smiled, no cocky smirk or dull eyes it was bright, and flashy and carefree because that was Niall, not the new Niall because he had never changed, he was always Niall.

Harry doesn’t want to disturb the boy, whose currently trying to wrap his brain around polymerase chain reactions and he needs to study, so that’s exactly what Harry lets him do, instead going to cook some parmesan chicken in the kitchen, a skill he finds he never knew he had but he loves it. Niall’s laughing loud and clear at the movie, he’s no longer stressed about his upcoming final exam in the third year of university and Harry’s chicken cures all stresses. Harry’s beside him, not really focusing on the blaring comedy on the flat screen television, but at Niall whose just living life like himself, and life is great, almost too great and Harry’s wondering when it’s all going to end but he wakes up every morning to Niall’s burnt toast, and too sugary tea and it’s all just great.

Maybe he’s not studying like Niall, but he sings at a local bar every Saturday, and Niall’s teaching his guitar and he honestly loves working at the café with a crazy boy called Andy and a fashion degree student called Cher who has the most colourful personality. Niall spoils him, and he thrusts each item of clothing back in his face, each bottle of cologne go onto Niall’s dressing table but when Niall bought him a bike he cried, and Niall chuckled pulling him into a hug, and tucking the keys into his back pocket with a squeeze.

“What’re you looking at Styles” Niall chuckles, and Harry flashes him a shy smile collecting up the dishes from their laps and placing them with a clutter on the glass coffee table, before leaning his head on Niall’s shoulder and yawning. “Just thinking of how grateful I am for everything you have done,” he mutters into Niall’s green sweater with this funny duck on that he stole awhile back, and forgot about giving it back, well not really it just smells like heaven, and cologne and these salty nachos that Niall seems to be eating all the time.

Niall nods quietly, and he’s happy as well and although he’s the one paying the bills, studying and pampering his best friend, if you can their relationship that because their linking is closer than that, he owes Harry absolutely everything, the money isn’t spent in vain because Harry’s earned it with the amount of smiles that have brightened up Niall’s face these past 3 years. There seems to be an invisible red string that connects two, and it tugs in the base of the others stomach at important moment, like when Niall was nervous about handing in his paper because he didn’t think his interpretation of _manufacturing human insulin through the use of modified bacteria_ was the same as his lecturers; Harry had known how anxious Niall would become before handing in a paper, so just as Niall was about to leave the lecture theatre, the manila folder holding his 50 pages of work still in his bag he received a text from Harry _Just hand the paper in Ni, its better if you do x Haz._ And he listened.

The string isn’t always invisible though, when Niall invited his friends from University over to the flat after his first year, Harry was sick after drinking too many Cuba Libre’s also known as coke and rum, he puked up violently in their polished white bathroom, and Niall rubbed his back gently as he pressed his feverish cheek to the cool tiles, and Ed (Niall’s stupidly amazing ginger friend, who Harry gets on quite well with) swore that the red string was visibly conjoining the two. It’s always there that short red string, Niall rolls out of his bed and Harry not far behind as they roam around the kitchen tiredly making cups of tea, and trying to make sure they have a decent sized breakfast often consisting of bakery bought blueberry muffins, and sugary cereals because although Harry’s a great chef he doesn’t like cooking in the mornings, only on weekends and after 9am. The red string they find is thicker than blood, and although there are frays and sometimes one boy tugs a little too tight it’s still in one piece, and the boys always feel attached in one way or another, in bad times or good.

Niall’s guitar is a treasured piece of his life, it’s like someone pulled out small threads of his heart and threaded them into the strings, the neck of the guitar is the column of his neck and the frets are the bones of his ribcage and the hollow is the emptiness of his stomach and it slowly feeds him as it vibrates sweet, sweet, sweet music. But Harry is allowed to play with that treasured piece of his heart, he’s allowed to strum messily at the chords of his rib cage, and Niall never clenches his teeth at the thought, in fact he’s proud when the green eyed boy learns the right chords to his favourite song, and even when Harry grows frustrated he’s always assures him that it’s alright, because even the greatest musicians get things wrong.

Harry loves listening to Niall hum along to his guitar sitting in the windowsill of the large white bedroom and gazing over at the rainy city of London, at 2pm on a Sunday when he’s not bored but the guitar just calls him, and he can’t not caress her beautiful body like the love of his life. Harry’s not jealous per se as he knows Niall would sacrifice the guitar for him any day, but his talents are simply breath-taking and yes he can sing, but it’s the same as calloused fingers strumming the buttery strings into a perfect melody, the tap of his thumb on the back of the guitar with each chord, it’s simply stunning.

Life’s not as confusing in Harry’s mind anymore, it’s not a messy tangle of webs created by spiders that you have to untangle, and whilst there are problems there easier to overcome. Niall’s by his side, more than Zayn ever was because they talk, the share and they live whilst Zayn, he was there and he was protective, but was he ever really there. Harry’s still as confused as ever about love, because he doesn’t know how you translate love into the situation that he and Niall are in, they live together, breathe together but they don’t really ever get bored of each other. Niall’s carefree, his personality bright and funny, and Harry has absolutely no complaints at all, it’s perfect, too perfect, and he doesn’t look up at the stars at night to pray anymore, he doesn’t feel the need.

Sometimes he misses Zayn, wonders if he’s lonely or if he’s become as manic and unstable as Louis, he doubts that as Zayn was always a level-headed person and wouldn’t trail down the wrong path as he had self-control. Harry hopes that Zayn has found himself to love and cherish, but he knew Zayn was too poetic, artistic and dangerous for that, no girl could ever handle the pressure of Zayn being too introvert because sure Harry was worse but he had his reasons, and Zayn was abnormally short-tempered anyway, the girl would get hurt easily.

Niall comes home every Friday evening with a smile, because his classes finish at 2pm am he often heads out to the gym to rid of any excess pressures with a quick work-out and a massage, he’s always carrying Chinese takeaway and several bottle of Heineken. They sit, they laugh, they talk and they eat, its routine, but it’s never boring as sometimes Niall’s quite spontaneous and they’ll throw water bombs off the balcony, they’ll prank call takeaways with bad accents and send hundreds of pounds worth of food to their idiotic neighbours. It’s fun, it’s life and it’s Niall, all Niall and Harry never gets sick of it because they’re like soul mates, their best friends and they just click. It’s NiallandHarry.

It ends, it always ends because as Harry now realises the fun always ends, he did often sit on the windowsill beside Niall’s bed, his golden hair lay against the fluffy white pillow like a sleeping angel, peaceful like the dead but breathing life through his chest; as he looked over at him Harry used to think that everything was too perfect, nothings ever this perfect, when is it all going to disappear. And it does.

It was pretty sudden, and Harry wasn’t expecting it at all. The café that Harry worked at wasn’t very busy on a Wednesday morning, it was 10pm after the morning rush and Harry decided to take to steal a few baguettes from the delivery and take one to Niall, and get back to that café before the lunchtime buzz. Nicking two cheese and ham sandwiches he left a pouting Cher to man the till, well she was actually filing her nails but Harry wasn’t going to say anything. He didn’t bother to take of his apron, so he felt a little stupid walking through the university campus with Paul’s Café plastered over the ugly green pinafore. Reaching Niall’s lecture theatre, he noticed Ed running out and he bumped straight into Harry on the way, who was bumped straight into the concrete on his ass the sandwiches flying.

“What the fuck man?” he swore, sitting up and looking up at the ginger, who was frozen, Ed was normally a pretty care-free person and Harry would’ve thought he was laughing round about now but he looked ready to cry. “Ed?” Harry questions, anxiety filtering unknowingly into his voice, as he looks up at the ginger boy squinting slightly due to the sun, but Ed refuses to look down, he doesn’t move but the impending sound of an ambulance breaks their trance.

Harry shoots and doesn’t hesitate to run into the building, and he doesn’t notice that warm tears are dribbling down his face until he reaches the lecture theatre, where on the floor blood dripping from his heart is Niall, surrounded by people and crying girls.

Harry screams so hard he loses his voice, as if his vocal chords are ripped in half, his world turns black and everything’s crumbling and he can’t stop the spinning. He’s being questioned in a police station, but he doesn’t say anything just digs his nails into his thighs and screams for Niall, they’re asking him questions that he doesn’t understand, they’re a jumble of letters, and he doesn’t care. Harry just wants Niall, _where’s Niall, why’d he leave, is he in the other room, take me to Niall, I need Niall. Niall.Niall.Niall_

Harry goes home, and the apartments cold and empty, there’s no buzzing laughter and he sits on the sofa waiting, because Niall will walk through the door any minute with burgers and chips, and sweets and they’ll laugh, and talk and they’ll kidnap Mr Cuddles from next door again and everything will be okay. Because everything’s fine, because Niall’s just taking a break, he’s fine, Niall will be back soon. Except he doesn’t and Harry is stationary on that sofa for days, his throat is dry and scratchy, and Ed’s banging on the door begging him to open, but he just ignores him because he’s waiting.

Not until 2 weeks later when there’s a funeral and Ed’s broken into the house to force feed Harry and makes him drink water, and pushes him into the shower where he stands under the shower unmoving, because all he can smell is Niall’s apple scented hair, all he can here is Niall humming along to his guitar and all he can see is those cerulean eyes, and his golden hair. Harry’s dresses smartly in a rented black suit that Ed’s got for him, and surrounding him are people all crying, he sees Niall’s parents sobbing and a boy beside him who must be Greg, Niall’s older brother, and even when the Priest is saying the final prayer and the soil is going on it doesn’t hit him.

Harry wakes up, sweat dribbling down the column of his throat and he’s dizzy, warm and cold all at the same time because the nightmare was horrifying, he slides out of bed seeing dirty dishes full of bread crumbs and sticky jam and he laughs in what feels like years, but he’s pretty sure when him and Niall again stole that dusty grey cat from Ms Hunter the old lady last night was damn funny. The apartments eerily quiet as he pours himself a bowl of cereal and he thinks that Niall must have already left for Uni because otherwise there’s sounds of him in the shower singing Justin Bieber at the top of his voice, or he’s failing do his bed so he just leaves the mattress bare and the sheets bundled into the corner.

Harry decides not to have a shower and instead just heads out, and he’s happy because it’s a Thursday and it’s his day off, so he can go and tease Cher in the café, before ordering a few Vanilla lattes and meeting Niall in the park. Where they get ice cream from an old van with a freaky looking server who they have teasingly called Pete the Pervert, and sometimes they even have a go on the swings before some snotty nosed toddler comes up and complains of them being mean.

The curly haired boy does exactly that, he flicks foam at Cher in the café and Paul scowls at him, telling him to: “Get the hell out, or I’ll sack you!” and Harry leaves but not before blowing Cher a kiss which only gets him a scowl in return, but as much as he doesn’t like to admit it, he loves working at the café and meeting new people, it’s amusing and he wouldn’t trade his job for any other.

“Hey Niall” Harry cries, as he reaches the boy whose being surprisingly quiet, they would normally hug or Niall would run around the small park cackling as Harry chased after him, they would be like big kids, messing about like high schoolers on a school trip.

“So?” Harry stutters and it’s the worse because it’s becoming awkward and that’s the one thing it never was between him and Niall, they was always something to talk about, something to say and it’s scary because maybe Niall’s getting bores of Harry, maybe he’s not funny enough or they’re daily crazy antics aren’t enough to feed the child that is Niall.

“Have you done anything today? I went to the café and chucked foam at Cher it was funny, before Paul came out like the fatass he is and told me he would sack me, stupid fucker, I’m the best person working there, all Cher does is bloody file her nails” Harry chuckles and still Niall doesn’t reply, so Harry sighs placing the cup of Vanilla latte in front of the blond boy in hopes that the strong scent will pull him out of a trance.

“I bought your favourite, I remember how much you hate normal coffee but you love sugar, so here it is a Vanilla Latte with extra cream, a double shot of caramel syrup and two sugars” Harry smiles flashing his dimples cutely as he takes a sip of his own drink, grimacing slightly at the amount of sugar but if Niall likes it then Harry likes it, the boys always been addicted to sugar, and weed but that’s another story.

Harry thrashes his fist against Niall, and it pulls back bloody and he screams until his voice it hoarse because he’s gone, he really is gone. All that’s in front of him is an engraved tomb stone underneath a willow tree engraved with the writings _Niall James Horan. Beloved Son, Brother and Friend. Never forgotten, loved forever. 1993 to 2013._

 

Liam stands by the door, and once again looks round the suburban area, it green and its gated and it’s a community exactly the place where Liam would like to raise his own family, but before he can contemplate his future anymore he realises that he has something to do, so he knocks on the door. A pretty blue eyed girl opens the door, she’s got bottle blond hair pulled back into a messy bun atop her head and she’s wearing leggings with a tee shirt and fluffy socks. She looks slightly embarrassed that she has opened the door looking rather rough, and she isn’t wearing any make-up but then she doesn’t even know the young man at the door, so why should she care.

“I’m, erm,” Liam stutters slightly. “I’m looking for a Zayn Malik” he asks with raised eyebrows and the girl tips her head to the side examining the tall, brown eyed boy before calling her boyfriend, whose holding a small squirming toddler in his arms as he appears.

“Who is it Pez?” he asks, dropping Edward to the floor and watching the small boy giggle and toddle into the living room where he once again plays with the small black cat. Zayn approaches the door, and Perrie gives him a crazy gesture with her eyebrows before dashing off the living room where Edward is playing.

Liam looks at Zayn and sees absolutely no resemblance to Harry at all, except maybe the good looks because he has a perfectly cut jaw, and black fluffy hair and his eyes are a warm chocolate brown, he’s got a few tattoos that are visible on his arms, a microphone and when he turns his wrist Liam can clearly see a capital H on his vein. “Who are you?” Zayn asks, and he doesn’t mean to sound rude but a person he has never seen in his life is asking for him, and he bluntly wants to know why.

Liam doesn’t want to intrude in anyway but he doesn’t think what he is about to say is appropriate to say on a doorstep of the house, because who know how Zayn is going to react. “It’s about Harry… Harry Styles” he says quietly, and he sees Zayn visibly wince before letting him into the house. Liam walks into the spacious living room, on the floor is a small blue eyed toddler, with fluffy dark brown hair and he’s the cutest thing that Liam has ever seen. Zayn stares pointedly at the young man he just let into his home; he looks respectable enough in a pair of chinos, a blue plaid shirt and short cut brown hair, but Zayn can’t help but be protective with his son on the floor and his girlfriend in the kitchen but when the boy mentioned Harry he couldn’t help but let him in.

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m Liam” the Wolverhampton boy says extending his hand shakily towards the intimidating tattooed boy, who grasps it firmly before asking Liam to tell him about Harry, and Liam pauses because how the hell do you break the news to someone.

“Well, I didn’t really know Harry that well but…” he coughs looking to the floor, and sliding his clean converse on the white carpet, he feels rather sick and wants to ask where the bathroom is but he swallows the bile quickly looking back up into the stern eyes of Zayn.

“I’m a writer and well Harry approached me one day at a café in London, and he told me about his life because he wanted me to write about it, and we became contacts because he said he didn’t want any friends after, well after Niall” at the mention of Niall he notices how Zayn becomes rigid, his eyes darkening to black, he looks absolutely terrifying, and Liam can’t help but shrink into his seat.

Zayn’s clenching his fists tightly on the seat and before he stands up and pounces on Liam because _what the fuck has Niall done with my brother?!_ He sees Edward playing with the small kitten on the floor, making small noises as the kitten mews and paws at his clothes as the 2 year giggles childishly at the gesture. “Eddy, go into the kitchen. I think Mummy has some cookies for you” Zayn says, and the little boy jumps up, the kitten in his arms, muttering to himself.

As soon as Edward leaves the room, Zayn’s up and looming scarily over Liam, and right now he doesn’t fucking care about hospitality. “Tell me about Harry right now” he spits in Liam’s who whimpers at the action, thinking about his father and how he was treated, but he pushes that aside.

“He’s dead” he quietly whispers, Zayn’s eyes discolour immediately and he falls back onto the carpet with a choked sob, the room is spinning and even when he sees the comforting blue eyes of Perrie, they’re bleeding and everything’s dark it’s over, he’s a bad brother, he’s a _fucking_ bad brother because Harry’s not supposed to die, he’s supposed to live a long, happy life with children and a beautiful lover but he doesn’t.

Instead Zayn has everything that Harry ever wanted, he’s got a beautiful son who he takes to the park and whose laugh is the most beautiful sound in the world, a stunning girlfriend who he hopes to make his wife and loves with all his heart, he has friends and a steady job. Zayn always wanted to be alone, was always the lonely poet who would never find love, who never escape the concrete drugged up paradise but he did. It’s everything that Harry ever dreamed of but he lost everything, absolutely everything and Zayn got it all.

“I brought you some white roses Haz, I read it in your journal that you gave to Liam, but you never told me you liked flowers. I would’ve bought you some before” Zayn laughs bitterly, caressing the marble of the tombstone and looking over to Niall beside his younger brother. He’s so grateful for Niall at looking at his brother, and as he kisses the tombstone, shedding a quick tear which is quickly wiped off with a rough wipe of his hand.

“Hey Ni, Josh was asking about you the other day. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about you, but I gave him the address of the graveyard so he’ll probably visit this week” Zayn says, and although he knows he talking to the breeze he can already imagine Niall’s cocky laugh along with a snippet of his dry humour in return and Harry’s dimpled smile, with that light blush that dusts his cheeks whenever he gets complimented. He smiles, looking up at the beautiful willow tree above the two graves, and he starts singing, because it’s easier to convey his emotions that way.

 

 

Step one, you say, we need to talk

He walks, you say, Sit down, it's just a talk  
He smiles politely back at you.  
 You stare politely right on through

Some sort of window to your right  
as he goes left and you stay right  
between the lines of fear and blame  
you begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend  
Somewhere along in the bitterness  
And I would have stayed up with you all night  
Had I known how to save a life

Let him know that you know best  
Cause after all, you do know best  
Try to slip past his defence  
Without granting innocence

Lay down a list of what is wrong  
the things you've told him all along  
And pray to God he hears you  
And pray to God he hears you

And where did I go wrong? I lost a friend  
somewhere along in the bitterness  
and I would have stayed up with you all night  
had I known how to save a life

As he begins to raise his voice  
you lower yours and grant him one last choice  
Drive until you lose the road  
or break with the ones you've followed

He will do one of two things  
He will admit to everything  
or he'll say he's just not the same  
and you'll begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend  
somewhere along in the bitterness  
and I would have stayed up with you all night  
Had I known how to save a life

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend  
somewhere along in the bitterness  
and I would have stayed up with you all night  
had I known how to save a life

Zayn finishes with a sigh, and he places a kiss on each tombstone and whispers a quick _I love you_ into the picture of Harry printed on the black marble, and he walks away and doesn’t turn back to leave a lingering look because he’ll be back tomorrow at the same time after he leaves the office. But the transcription on Harry’s tomb still haunts him, because it’s what he wrote in that letter to Liam.

 

_Harry Edward Styles Malik. Loving Brother, Friend and Uncle. 1995-2013. My heart once beat with a thrumming of pain. But that’s now ended, nothing remains. Not even my angel of death._

 


End file.
